


And the rest, as they say, is history

by NO2800



Category: teen wolf - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Feels, F/M, Stydia, They fall in luuuve, cuz I live for the pain, i love them, like.. They stare at each other a LOT, love and pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2019-01-06 04:02:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12203493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NO2800/pseuds/NO2800
Summary: "Well, you're-" he gestures up and down her whole body once before continuing. "You're Lydia Martin for the love of god. You took AP chemisty with freaking Harris, forfun. I feel like you could kill a man with a heel, you know?You're presumably a certified genius for all I care. What could you possibly have to fear about university, or like, anything?"Or: The AU where Stiles and Lydia are runaways.





	And the rest, as they say, is history

**Author's Note:**

> Fuck me uuuuuupppp. 
> 
> I've had this in my drafts for... idk how long, and I figured that since we had to say goodbye to our babies the other night, this might cheer someone up?
> 
> I love them. Truly. And they love each other. And this is Stydia on the run, but like, on the responsible run. :)
> 
> PLEASE COMMENT!!!!!!!! Like? Comment how your day was idc just comment <3
> 
> (BTW; there's probably a lot of typos and stuff, but just let me know or ignore it!)

He stares down at the diploma in his hand with a twisting sensation spreading through his gut.

It should be a pleasant thing, and it sort of is. It's twelve years of school finally behind him and the proof of it stamped down on the certificate before him. That's nice, great even. It truly is.

At least until he looks over to the paper cradled in his other hand, which with a few short sentences welcomes him to join the other students at Stanford university at the end of summer. That's where the twisting starts to take an more unpleasant turn.

He has, like most people he assumes, always had a glorified picture of the college-life painted before him. The dorms, the parties, hell, even the studying part.

(Who is he kidding? Definitely the studying part. He's a nerd.)

But there's also something else.

'You find your true friends in college.' Everyone tells him. 'You find out what you should become when you start studying in college.' They say. 'You find a partner in college.' and _this_ , these statements, is why the pleasantness ends and the anxious drum takes over. Because, thing is, Stiles is supposed to leave for Stanford tomorrow, and here he is, dreading it with every second that makes the inevitable creep closer.

He lays the letters down on his desk side by side, eyes slitting as he scrutinizes them. Thinking that maybe, if he looks hard enough, they'll provide some sort of answer for him. But they lay silently stoic next to his plane-ticket.

It's just... he feels like somehow he's got a lot to lose.

He has a best friend he doesn't plan on ridding anytime soon, although Scott has already packed his bags and left for UC Davis. He has no clue whatsoever what he wants to do with his life and a dad he doesn't want to dissapoint. And as for a partner, well... his sexual orientation needle has pretty much been set on Lydia Martin since third grade and hey, she actually smiled to him at graduation and he had gotten to exchange a few words with her as their best friends seemingly _really_ laid eyes on each other for the first time at the graduation party.

Allison and Scott had been hooking up the whole summer since, and he had gotten to see flashes of summer-Lydia because of it. Summer-Lydia seemed to be ace. Stiles had practically been more angushied than Scott over his and Allison's unknown relationshipstatus as they both had left to get settled at their respective universities.

He flopped down on his bed and it squeaked loudly underneath him, serving as yet another reminder for something he was outgrowing. He laid for a moment staring at the roof, mind blank.

He was _so_ not getting any sleep tonight.

He glanced at his bedside watch and the laminated numbers told him 23:43 p.m.

Nine hours before he was supposed to get up and leave.

He sat up again, his whole body jittery with something, and before his head could really make a conscious decision, he grabbed his carkeys and a hoodie and headed out the door.

 

••••

 

Lydia pulled the car to a halt at the lookout point over Beacon Hills.

The late August summer nights brought just the right kind of magical darkness for the town to look nice from this distance, and she wanted to roll her eyes as she jumped out the car and gracefully positioned herself to lean on the hood.

She glared out at the view and rested her head in her hand as she put her elbow against he car.

She squinted her eyes at the horizon.

In reality there wasn't a chance of her making out her house from where she was standing, but she felt as if it was imprinted before her eyes as she stared down at the twinkling lights.

Or... It wasn't her house that was imprinted really. Not even her room to be honest. But more a single piece of paper that was sat on her desk informing her that she was welcome to Stanford Univeristy in the morning, to attended classes and begin with what was supposed to be the rest of her life, apparently. Or so they said.

She crossed her arms over her chest and felt her bottom lip jut out in what may have been precieved as a pout. So what?No one could see her here anyway.

And wasn't that just the thing? She had spent the last twelve years honing the picture perfect Lydia Martin that she presented to her peers to rule over Beacon Hills teenage population, and suddenly, that Lydia didn't exist any more, not in the same way she had up until now at least. Maybe that was what itched in the back of her mind as she watched her things getting neatly packed down in boxes earlier that evening. A strong urge to just _not_ , had overwhelmed her.

Stanford awaited with millions of possibilities and yet it felt her only option come tomorrow would be choking on the persona she had created for herself, entering university with a short skirt and too tight skin stretched out to hide away something else. Hide away high expectations and fear to fail them dragging behind her like a heavy train.

She blinked at the the picture before her, as if it could provide her with a solution if she stared at it long and hard enough.

The skyline, unfortunately, stayed frustratingly beautiful and short of answers.

Then for a moment, it suddenly lights up before her, and Lydia has never been a believer in a higher power but for a few seconds she wishes.

That is, until the sound accompanying the sudden brightness reaches her ears and she realizes another car is nearing.

Her heart drums a little harder and she clasps her carkeys to her chest as she turns her head to find the source of noise. Her moment of solitude apparently over, she's just about to straighten up, get in her car and leave, when she recognizes the vehicle, even though its headlights prevents her from spotting the owner himself behind the wheel.

It's Stilinski's sorry excuse for a Jeep that pulls to a stop a couple of meters away next to her red Toyota.

She wants to sigh as she brushes her skirt down with her hands and drags a finger under her eye to make sure her make-up is impeccable. As the light dies down and the engine silences however, she feels strangely at ease with his being there.

She's seen some of him during the summer as Allison had started sleeping with puppy-eyed Scott McCall. She's never really (or deliberately not,) payed any attention to Stiles Stilinski's hair sticking up in odd angles, the sputtering, dying sounds of his car, the wild grin on his face or the heavy sarcasm weighing down his sentances.

They haven't exactly become friends over the course of the summer-break, and to be honest he was never really running in her circles during high school. It's more of a aquinatce she assumes.

They roll their eyes at each other as Scott fumbles with something he's trying to do for Allison and they cross their arms simeoultanosly as Allison stares lovestruck at Scott doing the thing where he saves kittens from tree's and help toddlers with castles in the sandbox.

They have even made an art of easliy slipping into light conversation about strange things filled with innendous as to try and drown out any awkwardness that may settle during impromtu make-out sessions started by earlier mentioned loved up idiots.

He's not too bad, she guesses. And it's not like he really knew The Lydia Martin anyway, even though she assumes he knew _about_ her.

It's Stiles Stilinski for Christ's sake. He can't harm her, and besides, she doesn't really feel the need to play Ice Queen when everyone is leaving in the morning.

His eyes are vary on her as he jumps out of the blue Jeep. He slams the door shut and the sudden sounds makes her wince a little bit.

"Martin. Didn't really expect to see you here." He raises his hand in an awkward wave, smile halfway to a grimace and she can literally see him debating if he's allowed to come over as he looks at her.

Again, she wants to roll her eyes, it seems to be almost a bad habit when it comes to him at this point.

"Hi Stiles." She sighs. "Likewise." She adds after a moment, because it's true, and her voice comes out flat but she feels a smile pull at the corners of her mouth.

He looks at her like she's a predator and she feels herself straightening with it. She stares at him for a moment and he stares back before she relents, patting the hood of her car that is separating them.

"You're allowed closer you know. I don't actually bite." She annonuces, and he looks doubtful for a second before finally nodding.

As he steps up, places the palms of his hand on the hood of her car and leans down on them, she finds she actually doesn't mind his being there at all.

The moonlight hits his face nicely, and it's not even uncomfortable. He's a bit tanner than last time she saw him and he's wearing a t-shirt and a baseball cap pushed down backwards over his dark head of hair.

"Hi." He says, small smile on his lips, before he turns to look out over Beacon Hills.

She smiles back, only after he turns, and then follows his lead. They stand like that, in companiable silence on either side of her car for a while.

The moon is almost full, the streetlights glow like fireflies in the distance, gravel crunches beneath their shoes now and then, and she assumes they're both leaving tomorrow although she's not sure where he has his sight set.

It would almost be romantic. Only it isn't. Because she's still feeling like she wishes she could vanish up in thin air and away from her decisions and she doesn't really know him at all.

"Would you think I was crazy if I said I wished I could go anywhere but to university tomorrow?" He asks a couple of minutes later, and for a second she thinks it's only her own thoughts voicing themselves through him.

She turns to him suddenly, mouth opening and closing, auditing the side of his face as he stares down at the valley with an unreadable expression. She swallows, crossing her arms as she turns back, feeling a frown forming on her forehead.

"Would you think I was crazy if I said i felt the same way?" She replies, surprising herself with her honesty.

She feels it when he removes his hands from her car, turning to look at her.

"Really?" He asks, and even though he speaks quietly it feels loud somehow.

"Really." She nods, not meeting his gaze.

"That's... yeah. That is crazy Lydia." He remarks next, almost offhandedly and now she turns to glare at him. "What do you mean by that exactly?" She demands, suddenly irritated.

His eyes are wide and he licks his lips as he looks back at her, seemingly searching for a way to voice his thoughts.

"Well, you're-" he gestures up and down her whole body once before continuing. "You're Lydia Martin for the love of god. You took AP chemisty with freaking Harris, for _fun_. I feel like you could kill a man with a heel, you know? You're presumably a certified genius for all I care. What could you possibly have to fear about university, or like, anything?"

Maybe it's the way he seems so ernest when he says it. Maybe it's the way he says it like it's something obvious. Or maybe it's how he somehow seems to know these things, these really shallow things that suddenly feels intimate.

Maybe it's one of those things that makes her heart beat harder and her hands slick with sweat, but Lydia is caught of guard by his statement, anger slipping of her. He's not completely right though. He may be correct on every single statement but one, but it's the one that matters the most. Because she can suddenly identify the feeling that's been stirring in her chest all night long, and she realizes at once, that she's terrified.

"It's not..." She begins, but doesn't know how to finish and they stare at each other for a beat. "Fear isn't always rational." She ends up saying, and she can see how something in his eyes shies away at her words, but he bows his head scuffing his shoe against the wheel of her car before she can figure out what it is.

"Well, you're right about that." He offers and she suddenly finds herself wondering too.

What could Stiles Stilinski possibly have to fear about collage?

He sighs and looks back up, gaze fixing somewhere behind her.

"I wish I could just..." he throws a hand up for emphasis. "Like, get behind the wheel and drive and forget all about dorms and classes and becoming... someone. You know? Just get away from all of it."

He glances at her, pausing before running a hand over his neck and looking downbeat.

"I can't of course. I'm aware of that. But-"

"Why not?" She interrupts him, words out before she has a chance to think them through.

But as he speaks something wild has bloomed out in her chest and she has no idea how to tamper it. She feels crazy, irrational and it feels _good_.

"I... What?" He turns to her, eyes narrowing as she feels like her heart might be beating out of her chest. She presses her lips into a thin line before answering.

"I just... Why not?"

She thinks she's suggesting something.

She's not sure of what as his eye grow wide and her knuckles tighten around her carkeys.

She just knows that she's feeling crazy and irrational and she doesn't want it to stop, because at least then, she's not feeling terrified.

 

••••

 

"You'll have to be quick." He informs her, voice hushed and rushed even though they're still in his car outside of Lydia's house.

She nods, giving him one last look before she climbs out and hurries up the porch steps to the front door. She doesn't make a sound as she slips in and he sags back against the seat of the Jeep as soon as she dissapears from sight.

He glances over his shoulders to the backseat, where the trunks with his things that he had thrown together half an hour earlier lies, and wonders silently why he's not freaking out more.

Because two hours ago Lydia Martin, of all people, had voiced to him what might've once occured in a twelve year old Stiles' fantasy. " _Lets run away._ " and he had, for some unfathomable reason, agreed.

Or maybe not _unfathomable,_ becauselets be honest, she was giving him the out he had been looking for all summer and when it was neatly presented to him on a silver platter, he was going to take it.

It's strange that he's more terrified and freaked out over the thought of going to Stanford tomorrow than he is of the prospect of spending an undefined amount of time with Lydia fucking Martin in the small, _very_ defined spaces of his car.

And maybe he's not terrified because it doesn't feel like he's running away, or letting his future slip through his fingers. It feels like he's sparing himself a future he doesn't see himself ending up happy in. It doesn't feel like a bad choice. Not yet at least.

And it feels even better when he sees Lydia quietly sneaking back out, closing the door behind her and raising a hand over her eyes to squint at his car.

He scrambles into action, almost tripping out of the Jeep as he jogs over to haul one of her trunks over his shoulder and take one of her suitcases in hand.

She laughs at him then, smile wide and eyes glimmering with excitment and she's totally, completely _beautiful_. _Then,_ it feels like a bad decision, because holy shit. He's totally fucked already, isn't he?

But he can't help but smile back, and they really have to be quiet, and maybe that's why it's suddenly so hard not to giggle as she takes her other suitcase and they run over to the car, getting her things into the backseat and then climbing into their respective seats of it.

They stare at her house for a second, then at each other, and then they fall into totally unfledged laughter.

It's nervous, they're laughing because they know they're doing something beyond stupid, and it feels so liberating he thinks he could fly away with it.

And he doesn't even really know her, does he? So then why does it feel so easy when he shifts the car into gear and turns to her with one hand on the steeringwheel, one eyebrow cocked, a loopsided grin on his lips and asks;

"Where to then Martin?"

 

••••

 

They take turns driving, because _go figure_ , the adrenaline of the flight dies out pretty soon after they leave the boarders of Beacon Hills behind them.

So does conversation, apparently, and Lydia doesn't get how what seemed easy one second ago, now seems _just_ on the wrong side of stilted.

It's like somewhere between San Jose and San Fransico they remebered that, hey! We don't know each other all that well and maybe it shouldn't be this easy?

Becasue it had been.

He had been blabbing on about some TV-show and for almost an hour and Lydia had told him about that time when she actually was able take her sister's math-test for her when Claire had been in eight grade and Lydia in forth. It's easy. It's easy right up until it's not, because during some part of their conversation he had said something. Just a comment, nothing really, about Beacon Hills High School.

Winter Formal in sophmore year to be precise. (And Lydia likes being precise.) That's all it was. It was just Stiles making a stupid comment about her and Jackson's stupid fight during stupid Winter Formal in sophmore year and she had screwed up.

Because without thinking her answer had been, "I didn't even know you went to that." and that had been it. Because he stiffened up in his seat and when he did that Lydia grabbed the steering-wheel harder and ever since, conversation had been _just_ on the wrong side of stilted.

They're nearing Sacramento, the sun is starting to hint at the skyline and Lydia wants to fix it. Because when they had been parked on the lookout point of Beacon Hills she had decided not to play Ice Queen and that decision seems impossible to retreat now.

They've been quiet for a while and he looks like a perpetulant child as he turns the knobs on the radio, not finding anything he's willing to settle on, and Lydia has had an urge to strangle him for the last twenty minutes.

She wants to fix it, she does. But when he presses the button to change the station for the fifteenth time in five minutes, she snaps.

"Could you not?"

She stares at the highway before them and she can feel his glare on the side of her face.

"Sorry." He replies immediately, voice snapping like a taught string and hands hiding, restraint as he tucks them away and crosses his arms over his chest.

Her eyes flick over to him, and he looks thoughtful rather than uncomfortable. It twists something in her chest and she quickly turns her gaze back to the road.

They stay silent for several minutes, landscape passing them by, heartwrenchingly beautiful in the light of the sunrise and the two of them oblivious to it due to the suffocating thoughts in the confined spaces of his Jeep.

She's just about to slip in on a darker route of thoughts, the one called 'regrets', about to place this decision to run amongst them, when an old Taylor Swift song suddenly starts playing on the radio.

Without thinking she turns the volume up, starting to hum along to it. She starts singing actual words during the chorus and then feels heat rushing to her cheeks when she once again notices a pair of amber eyes on her.

When she's glancing over this time a smug smile is pulling on his lips and he looks like he's trying not to laugh.

"What?" She demands.

She will not feel embarassed about liking Taylor Swift. That's just not on the table.

"Nothing." he smirks, turning to look out his window, still not completely able to hide his smile.

She furrows her brow. "It's just a song on the radio Stiles. I'm allowed to sing along." She declares, voice once again edging towards irritation.

He turns back to her. Looking amused as his arms fall down from where they've been resting against his chest. "I know. It's not that, it's just..." He answers, meeting her gaze before she turns back to the road. "It's alright you don't remeber my being at Winter Formal Lydia, but like, this song..." He laughs. Cheeks flushing in a way that would've been adorable, but it's goofy and loud Stiles Stilinski.

"It's just... This song was playing and I was just about to ask you to dance." He admits, and an unwanted warmth suddenly starts spreading from the pit of her stomach all the way out into the tips of her fingers, her mind already sorting through something she was sure she had forgotten.

"And like- I swear you were staring at me. Daring me to take even a step closer, and I felt like I was about to have a seisure right there and this song was playing and y'know..." He pauses, smiling out the window.

"I was just about to actually do it. Just about to be rejected, no doubt, I don't blame you, I mean- I did have this terrible buzzcut thing going on and anyways... I was just about to do it when someone caught Jackson trying to pour liqour into the punch and then you just stormed away and I..." He trails off, letting out another laugh and turning his gaze down to his hands now resting in his lap.

She should probably smile, or reach over, but she's in the middle of a realization and she doesn't want to press pause right now. Because as the warmth lingers in the pads of her fingers she suddenly has a vivid image painted before her. A wide eyed, skinnier and terribly dressed verison of the boy sitting next to her.

He's howering in the middle of the dance-floor and Lydia remembers another surge of irritation back then.

She's daring him to come up, warning him with her eyes, because she has finally rekindled with Jackson, and he's just away getting them some punch and she's daring this kid to walk up to her and try to interrupt that.

Her heart feels like it's doing a thing and she turns to him eyes bright and smile pulling her mouth wider.

"I remember that!" She proclaims excitedly to him, meeting his gaze.

"Oh my god. I can't believe you ever thought a buzzcut was a good idea on you?" She says next staring out into thin air, grimacing as she remembers that particular aspect.

He laughs loudly. "I should probably be embarrassed." He agrees.

"Too bad I'm not." He adds, before leaning over and turning the volume up even louder.

And as he belts out the second chorus to Love Story and she joins him, it's easy again.

It's okay because back then, neither of them had been who they are right now, and who they are now are what matters.

It feels like an unspoken agreement between them as the sun leaves the horizon to rise in the sky. Right now is what matters, and right now, right now is easy. 

 

••••

 

"Oh my god." He's wheezing. He's aware of the fact that he's wheezing, clawing at his chest and leaning back against the door of the Jeep, but he can't stop it. He just can't. He's also aware of the fact that Lydia is on the other side of the car doing the exact same thing, but he can't do anything about that either.

"Oh my god." He hears his voice climb an octave, which like, he didn't know it could do that, but... not the point right now.

An elderly lade stares at him wide-eyed, from across the parking lot of the gas-station they're stopped at. She clutches her purse closer as she hurriedly rips the gas-hose out of her car and scrambles to put it back in place before getting into the driver's seat, locking it profoundly, eyes never really leaving him.

He gets that he must be looking kind of creepy and probably like he's on something. It's pretty hard to misinterpret the looks, this, and other elderly ladies has shot him during the last five minutes.

And seriously does only ladies over fifty fill their tank up at 9 a.m in the morning?

Anyways. The point is;

The reality of what he and Lydia have done has kind of finally struck. It struck pretty much exactly at 8.55 a.m. as the two of them realized that the call-up was going to take place in five minutes and that they weren't going to be attending.

So naturally, they had stopped, both of them falling out of the car, mumbling about fresh air and then simountaneously had pressed up against their side of the Jeep and continued to have a full on freak out at their respective ends.

"What have we done?" He asks out loud. Because. Like. He's not even sure.

He turns around abruptly, just to see Lydia staring at him thorugh her window over the interior of the Jeep. A muffled "Oh my god." reaches him as she pulls at her hair with a sort of crazed look on her face.

"We fucked up." He says, mostly to himself, but he knows she's heard when she shoots him a deathly glare and his mouth snaps shut.

They really did though, because honestly. What the _fuck_? What the _hell_ had they been thinking? Taking off the night before they're supposed to start collage?

He paces to the right. Then swiftly, as he remembers that his future is up in smoke, that he'll now proceed to burn whatever money he has left, probably sleep in the Jeep until he has to sell that too and that Lydia will then have to become a prostitue and he'll have to become like, a drug dealer, or even more likely, the other way around, and that they'll be living on the street with herpes and the sewer-rats, he goes on to lie his entire upper body down on the hood of the Jeep, a strange sound emerging from deep within his throat.

"We fucked up." He squeaks against the shabby (at best,) paint-job of his car. His future home.

He mostly feels like he'd like a lot to just lie there until he becomes nothing more than another muggy stain on the hood, but a pair of small and surprisingly strong hands grab the back of his shirt and pulls his head up.

Lydia is staring at him with a determined set to her mouth and a wild look in her eyes.

"Get it together Stilinski! We did not fuck up."

He lets her hold him up as he shrugs unsympathetically. "We really did though Lydia." She harrumphs, letting go of him and his head bumps painfully against the car, which causes him to shoot up into standing position again, scowling and rubbing at the now sore spot on his forehead.

Thanks a lot _Lydia_. Like he needs another misery in his life at the moment.

"Alright so. It may not have been the best move on our part. But we can do this. Ok?" Steel sets in her eyes as she glares at him and her arms cross themselves defiantly over her chest.

He huffs, pulls his hood up over his hair and shoves his hands into the pockets of his shirt.

"Take out the 'It may not have been', insert a '-This is', switch the 'best' to a 'worst and add a 't' to the 'can'." He mumbles, looking away sourly, poking at a pebble with his right foot.

He startles when her hand slams down on the car between them arms flying out as he takes a step back at the sudden sound. "

"We can Stiles."

She looks fierce in the early light. Her hair crowns around her head, her jean-jacket looks too cold but she looks warm and everything about her, from her stance to the set of her jaw screams _strong_.

He drops his arms as he meets her gaze.

He wants to be strong too. He does.

"I had a reason to do this. That reason still exists. Alright? This might not have been very thought-through, and right now i'll admit it feels kind of miserable but... we can. I swear we can do this. Whatever it is. We'll figure it out. We'll figure this out so that we can figure the rest out later. And I'll ask again, but just this once." She says, the hazel of her eyes bright.

She takes a deep breath and straightens up. He he feels like he's unfurling in front of her. Because what she says- it's true. It goes for him as well. That, but also, she's so amazing and he feels a little breathless.

"Are you with me?"

She doesn't stutter on a single syllable.

He licks his lips, mouth gaping slighly open and his left shoulder suddenly warm where the sun has reached over the the roof of the gas station.

"I am."

He takes a deep breath.

"I am." he says.

He is.

 

••••

 

 

”You did _what_?!” Allison’s voice sounds far away and crackly through the pay phone, which is probably the only reason Lydia hasn’t hung up yet in pure fear.

“I can’t believe it… oh my god.”

There’s a drawn out loaded silence, then suddenly, a booming laughter reaches her over the land line. Allison is gasping for air as she tries to squeak something out.

“Allison!” Lydia stomps her foot as she tries to will her best friend to get it together. There is nothing funny about her current situation.

"You ran away with _Stiles Stilinski_ , Scott's best friend, to avoid starting university?"

Lydia furrows her brow.

"Well technically-" 

"Lydia, there is literally nothing you can say to make this seem any less crazy than what it is." 

She's quiet for a beat, and then sighs in defeat. 

"Yeah fine."

She can hear Allison chuckle again and it makes her cheeks stain red for some reason. 

"Oh my god. This is honestly too good to be true." Allison spectates, sounding smug. 

"Shut up." Lydia grumbles, not sure what else to say. 

She ran away with Scott's best friend, Stiles Stilinski, to avoid starting university. End sentence. 

Weird thing is, it doesn't sound too bad.

 

••••

 

"You did _what!_?" 

"Look Scott, honestly it's not as bad as it sounds and-"

"With _who_?"

"Yeah I'll admit that aspect surprised me as well, but you know-"

"And you're _where_?"

"Yeah well, as I said, I'm not really sure but last time we checked I think we-"

"God. Dude, for real, this might be the stupidest thing you've ever done."

Stiles mulls it over for a second, eyes narrowing as Lydia looks clearly distressed in the booth across from his.

"Are we counting that time I tried stealing your dads ID to buy us liquor because if we are then I could beg to dif-"

"Stiles! You're in north California, with Lydia _Martin_ , of all people, you just blew a place at collage and your dad is seriously pissed off and has called me a bazillion times to ask about you. This _is_ your worst idea ever."

As Scott goes on about god knows what, the doom of his future, his gas cost, who knows? Yada Yada, Stiles winds the phone cord around his index finger, staring down at it. He _does_ feel bad about his dad. But, he'd left a note, and really, he was surprised they expected more after 18 years in his near vicinity.

"Did he say something about what I wrote?" He cuts Scott off in the middle of another downwards spiral sentence and he gets an exasperated groan in response.

"No Stiles, he didn't have much to say about the 'I'm skipping town with Lydia to avoid responsibility, but I'll call soon. Probably.' - note! He freaked out!"

Stiles winces at that. But his father knows him, knows that there's more to it than a girl and unreasonable choices.

"So what was I supposed to do?" He asks next, gritting his teeth, because frankly, he's had it. It's done, and no matter how much Scott wants to whine about it, there's no going back.

He's met with a familiar, kinder silence. Scott sighs, and Stiles can practically see him rubbing his temples at the question. 

"Well... yeah. Dude, what are you going to do?" Scott asks finally. 

He takes a moment. Turns to Lydia who meets his gaze across the filthy phone-booth glass and swallows hard. 

Isn't that the question?

 

••••

Lydia watches him from where she’s sat across from him in the small diner.

She watches the straight line of his nose, his long, delicate eyelashes and his large hands as his fingers close all the way around his paper cup.

Then he slurps loudly on his milkshake, and when he opens his mouth to snark out another youtube-biased fact at her face, she snaps out of it.

“No, no. The witch-hunt was mostly caused by the Malleus Maleficarum, but only because the Catholic Church had that damn book written! I’m telling you, they were the biggest dicks on the planet!” He claims, pointing at her with a long finger to make his point while stuffing his mouth with fries.

She rolls her eyes and leans over the table to slap his hand down.

“And how does that make my statement invalid?” She retorts, and his brow knits together as he chews and thinks it over. He swallows thoroughly as he meets her gaze.

“But I don’t get it? The Laws of Alfred clearly says that only women can be convicted as witches?”

She thinks it’s a question.

“Yes, misogyny was a great hobby back in the 15th century, but men were convicted too. It was used as a overthrowing method to people with great power.”

Stiles is quiet, sucking on his straw in with pouting lips in a way that makes Lydia squirm for some reason.

He finally let’s go of it with an obscene ‘pop’ and fixes her with his eyes yet again. “That is interesting.” He agrees with her, finally, and she nods, stifling the urge to roll her eyes again as she leans over the table for a second time, but this time to steal a fry from his plate.

“I told you.” She points out.

And god. Why had she vetoed herself from fries for the entirety of high school?

“You’re so cool.” He sighs sincerely as he puts his cup back on the table tenderly.

She smiles at him, and he shrugs.

It’s getting darker outside, and it seems to dawn on the both of them as they glance out through the window.

Three days has passed since they left Beacon Hills. None of them has dared to answer any calls or open any texts, they've been driving aimlessly along the northern parts of the west coast, and Lydia think she hasn't laughed or scoffed as much as she has over the past three days as she has over the last three years.

That's why, when she turns back to Stiles, with his eyelashes, hands and nose, she feels herself retreating back into her shell, resetting her walls.

He seems oblivious though, as he reaches over the table to snatch a tomato from her plate.

"D'ya think our parents have talked to each other yet?" He says, while popping it into his mouth and chewing it enthusiastically. Her eyes linger on the juice on his fingers, until he decides to suck it off of them, and then her eyes fix steadily on his face instead. She picks up her diet coke and takes a sip, contemplating it.

"I mean, probably? I can't really picture it though." She settles on, and he snorts in response. "Yeah, no. Me either." He agrees.

She almost smiles at the thought of Nathalie in her four inch heels climbing the steps to the Stilinski's, knocking on the door with a look of bewilderment, because why haven't they redecorated? Its not early 2000s anymore, for the love of god!

They don't have a plan yet. They don't have anything. They barley have a 'pla'. (Here she smiles smugly at her own reference.)

She kicks his seat when he's being annoying and he groans loudly every time she does, as if she's punctured his lung not nudged his car. He steals food from her plates, so she have retreated to the same methods, he snores when he's laying on his back and he does a wheezing sound when he laughs, it's contagious and always makes one of her own bubble in her chest. He eats swizzlers as dinner and can rant on about the most random subjects for the longest times, something that always ends with him shoving a Wikipedia page up her face proclaiming loudly that "I'm right Lydia! Face facts!" And then always proceeds into him listening attentively to her explain something and then asking her more and more questions until she realises that he hasn't even admitted that he was wrong.

Worst part of it is that sometimes he's even right.

He slurps loudly before her, and something that reminds her of fondness sneaks up her back. She slams herself into the backrest of the booth to clamour it.

"Stiles." He's too busy trying to root through her salad for another tomato to hear her. She tries again.

"Stiles."

He hmm's, but then proceeds to squeak in delight when he finds one, hidden beneath a leaf or spinach.

"Stiles!"

He flails as she raises her voice, almost dropping the tomato as he does. Then, with it clutched against his chest he sags back into his seat staring at her under furrowed brows.

"Geez Lydia. What is it?" She stares at him unbelievingly for a beat before setting her elbows on the table and leaning forward over it.

"We need a plan." She proclaims, and he looks paler as soon as the words are out her mouth.

His eyes drops down to his hands as he places the damn tomato back onto his plate and he's quiet for a moment before looking back up to meet her eyes. And there she sees it. What they've both been trying to avoid by getting up each other's throats and pretending this is something it isn't. As the amber of his irises gazes at her with a unfathomable expression, she decides; no more of that. No more suppressing facts.

 _Then admit he's pretty_. A voice in the back of her head speaks up and she smothers it immediately.

"We need a plan." She emphasises, slamming the palm of her hand down on the table.

He sighs, scrubbing a hand along his jaw and averts his eyes to somewhere over her shoulder.

"I know." He admits.

Then he sits up straighter, turns around sideways to reach for her handbag, and before she has the chance to slap his hands away again he has presented a textbook and a pen on the table between them.

"So-" he says, flicking open a empty page and clicking the pen exaggeratedly.

He looks up to meet her eyes and smiles a lopsided smile as he does.

"Plan."

She wants to sigh again, as she stares back at him. Something, a memory, flashes up. A glimpse of a giant board with printed out papers and scrawled notes connected with string that had stood in his room as she had come to collect Allison for a girls night earlier in the summer.

She'd never been inside, but she had caught a glimpse of blue sheets and a neat room beneath the messy props made out by a few shirts and lacrosse accessories. It felt like she knew him then. Because this- him with imploring eyes and hand hovering above the paper to scrawl down a plan and connect facts felt like something so him.

Something crept up her back again, and again she squashed it.

"Plan." She agreed instead, sinking back into her seat and nodding in collusion.

They were runaways after all.

He smiled for real this time.

"Plan."

 

••••

 

"God, Lydia. Did you have to pick the creepiest motel out of the bunch or?" He asks as they climb out of the car.

And alright, she can see where he's coming from.

Motel California seems like a profoundly unattained establishment. What with the flickering neon lights of the sign, the questionable sanitation and the lady behind the desk that seems like all of Lydia's preconceived ideas of Motel owners come true.

"I've seen worse." She says instead as they move tentatively towards the reception.

He gives her a narrowed eyed glance as she does.

"Where have you possibly seen worse Lydia?" He questions, car keys jingling from where they hang around his fingers.

She folds her arms in front of her self, pulling her cardigan closer to her body as she does.

"Wouldn't you like to know." She snubs back, and he snorts loudly.

"I'm sorry." He says, but doesn't sound it. "I just feel like you've been raised in five star accommodations." He observes and she huffs.

He might be right, so what? It's not like she can't spend the night at one extremely shabby motel because of that.

"There's no other place for miles anyways, so..." she settles on in response, and his face voids of the smugness as she does. Maybe because her voice sounds smaller for some inextinguishable reason. "Yeah, okay. So lets-" he nods towards the desk and she starts walking in agreement.

They've taken into different places along the week that has passed. But none of them have seemed as bad as this. They had agreed to continue east for a while. Then to stay somewhere along the road and try to get some money by working day jobs.

Right now though, stood at Motel California, all she can really think about is if the place has ever been properly cleaned. She feels like there's a health-risk at touching the keys the lady presents them with when Stiles asks for a two-bed room.

"We've only got one queen's room empty." She informs them as she slides the keys over the tabletop surface, and then proceeds to light a cigarette, which Lydia thinks can't be a very thought through decision considering the surgical bandaid covering half her throat.

"Oh." Stiles says, eyes sliding nervously towards Lydia before shoving them back towards her with a determined set to his brow.

"No, we asked for a double and-"

"Then you'll have to go somewhere else kid." The lady tells him, blowing smoke over his face as she does.

Stiles eyes water with it and he coughs into his fist. "But-" he croaks out and Lydia sees that as her cue to interfere.

She rolls her eyes, grabbing the keys back and nods towards the owner. "That'll be fine, thanks."

She grabs his arm and pulls him along as he continues to cough loudly behind her. "But-" he says again, staring aimlessly ahead.

"It's fine Stiles just-" she says as she tries to make out the direction of their room. "Stay on your side of the bed." She tells him, warning edge to her words.

His eyes widen, but he merely nods in obedience and continues to dry-heave as she turns to glare at him.

"Alrighty." He says a moment later, and she can hear the squeaky pinch to his voice.

"Nothing special just- keeping to half of the bed and- and-" he quiets nervously as they come to a halt outside of room 217.

She ignores him as she shoves the key into the lock and turns the knob. The door creaks open before them, revealing a poorly lit room with a bed that seems at least a century old. And smaller than she imagined.

She swallows, and he makes a high-pitched sound behind her.

"That's not, uh... very big." He unnecessarily points out.

"Neither am I." She says, and her voice sounds entirely to chipper to be natural. "We'll fit." She states. She neither feels or sounds convinced.

"I'm pretty big." He says, _again_ , completely unnecessarily.

"Well that's very presumptuous of you." She snaps at him. Which at least makes him shut up, but also makes a blush climb up her neck because that's not really the right thing to bring up as of now, is it?

"Lydia I-" he begins as they step inside, and she turns around abruptly poking him in the chest as he speaks up.

"Stiles you say nothing, or you'll be sleeping on the floor." She informs him. And finally, his shoulders sag in defeat and he quiets.

Problem is, as she turns back to drop her bag onto the bed. She thinks hers does too.

 

••••

 

He turns, for the five hundredth time, and she has had enough. She turns, ripping the covers towards her and stares at him in what she hopes comes off as a pissed off manner.

"What?!" She says, and by how he locks his arms around himself in the confined space of the bed, carefully avoiding touching her in any way, she'd think she has succeeded.

"What Stiles?! Because if you move one more time I swear I will strangle you myself." She informs him, glaring at him through the darkness.

His eyes are big and his lips slightly parted as he stares back at her. He sniffles once hugging his arms tighter around himself and juts his bottom lip out in a pout. He almost looks a bit cold, and Lydia feels bad for hogging two thirds of the duvet all of a sudden.

"Sorry s'just..." he trails off staring at her left cheek. "Can't get comfortable."

She sighs, it sounds annoyed but she can't get the emotion to actually settle inside of her as she watches him scrunch up his nose and goosebumps rising on his arms. "Here." She gives in, lifting the duvet and throwing it over his shoulders as well.

He startles as she does, and his hand shoots out grabbing her at the waist to keep from falling off the bed. She inhales sharply. His fingers are cold as they brush her skin and if he's always tripping and stumbling and fumbling she can't for the life of her understand why his hand feels so steady on her body. His fingers squeeze her side boldly for another second before he steadies himself and snags it back.

"You're warm." He collects, adjusting under the covers so that only his head and shoulders peak out. He rests his hands on the bed between them, and suddenly he's closer but somehow too far away.

"That's usually worded differently." She tries to joke, it almost falls flat, but he smiles a little, so not completely.

"Yeah. You know..." he begins, eyes suddenly cast downwards and fingers pulling on a loose string. "I used to have the biggest crush on you." He admits, his voice is hushed, and he chuckles as he says it, but for some reason he looks guilty. "But like-" continues, brows knitting as he speaks. "You're not that person at all." He tries to explain. "Who you were in my head, that's not who you are right here."

He looks up again to meet her eyes. "If that makes any sense?" He asks, and she feels warm all-over as he does, except for the cold hard clench in her stomach all of a sudden.

So he doesn't think that way about her anymore. She's relived. Except she's not.

She's silent again, and so is he.

They lay there across from each other quietly, and somehow, between counting his eyelashes and freckles, she falls soundly asleep.

 

••••

 

Stay on your half of the bed, Lydia had said. So naturally, he wakes up draped over her.

Obviously his unconscious body has gone on a search for heat, as she during the night seemingly once again has snagged all the covers. But still, not a valid excuse.

"Stiles." She warns, voice sounding muffled from where she's hugged tightly against his shoulder. "Get off."

He scrambles off her and sheepishly pulls at his t-shirt. "Sorry." He yawns, but there's no real intent behind it, because truth is, he's still half asleep, and she had been cozily warm beneath him.

A perfect strawberry blonde pillow he muses, scratching his head and staring out into thin air until a pillow hits the side of his face.

"You're impossible." Lydia groans as she sits up in bed.

She looks unfairly cute, with her hair mussed up from sleep and bleary eyes as she squints at him.

He offers her a smile in response, but it feels like it comes out more as a grimace.

She squints. He stares. They both yawn and then they both snap their mouths shut when they realize they're doing it at the same time.

He shrugs.

"Breakfast?"

She shrugs.

"Breakfast."

 

••••

 

She's wearing sunglasses and chewing gum.

It pains him unexplainably because he knows she'll hit him if he makes a diva joke and he feels a desperate urge to do so.

They had decided to stop at the beach in Portland and they are currently sitting on a blanket in the sand.

It's too cold to go swimming so she's still wearing a sundress and he's still wearing his jeans and t-shirt. But it's nice enough outside for them to be void of shoes and any extra layers. He's got his toes buried in the sand, elbows on his knees as he sits uncharacteristically still and sneaks glances at her as she reads.

She bites the end of another swizzler before she turns to him, and he's caught with his eyes on her. "Why are you staring?" She asks, voice flat.

"Because a diva is the female version of a hustler?" He offers weakly and then falls back onto the blanket with shame. "I'm sorry." He says before she can be mad at him.

"Never apologize for quoting Beyoncé at me." She forgives him instantly, and he has to lay his arm over his face to hide his smile.

"If I have something on my face you'd do best to tell me though." She informs the next moment, asking again with out asking.

"Um." Is all he says and she sighs pointedly.

"I just- there's water, and then there's beach, and then there's you. You're just the most entertaining thing here to watch." He says meekly, and she hums in approval.

"That's alright." She nods.

He thinks she sort of knows. Has some sort of clue to that his heart stammers in his chest every time her skin brushes his.

They sit for another five minutes before he feels himself getting restless. It's like this jitter in his body and he can't make it stop. Especially not when she's sitting two feet away.

She's just so much person inside that peach-pale body in the flowery sundress before him, that he's almost dizzy with it.

She smells like Victoria's Secret but speaks like Pulitzer price, and then she's referencing Family Guy and Sartre in the same sentence which makes it tangle stupidly tight in his throat. She's so much bigger now and here beside him than cramped inside his head. He wants her to spread our further. He wants her to stretch and stretch until she covers him entirely.

It's so different now from how he only ever caught her beside Allison or pouting in the review-mirror before. They're on a beach in Portland and they don't know a single person except for each other, and that makes him feel winded rather than lonely. There's suddenly hundreds of new faces every day instead of the familiar shut-in's of Beacon Hills, and yet the only one he wants to turn to is her, because the better he gets to know her the more intriguing she seems.

"D'ya wanna get some ice cream or something?" He blurts out, because she's also wearing sunglasses and chewing gum and that's more than he can process right now.

She looks up at him over the edge of her glasses, scrutinizing him for a moment before slamming her book shut with a shrug.

"Why not." She agrees.

He scrambles up from the blanket, and before he can properly think it through he offers her a hand to stand.

She takes it without a second thought.

 

••••

 

She agreed to get ice cream. Heard herself say the magic words that supplied the agreement. She just can't fathom why, _why_ , she would ever agree to get ice cream with him.

Because she's stuck, with her icy popsicle dripping down her hand, watching him, almost enchanted, as he molests his own red one with his tongue. It's mesmerizing. It's too obscene for a public setting. It makes her bothered.

He licks a long stripe from the bottom of it to the top, his cheeks hollowing as he sucks at it for a moment. She feels her eyes growing big before she turns away promptly, glaring at her own blue treat melting away in her hand. She doesn't want it anymore.

"I just-" she turns back to him, fake smile plastered across her face. She spots a pay-phone behind him, a shabby thing with questionable function. It seems like a gateway to Narnia compared to getting caught ogling his tongue.

"I just need to call Allison." She gestures for the phone and he hums noncommittally, seemingly too distracted with lapping up juice from where it has started to run down his hand. She feels her cheeks flush and her stomach turn pleasantly as she watches.

"I'll be quick."

Her voice sounds breathless even to her own ears and she dumps her own ice cream in a bin as she hurries over to the phone.

It takes her three signals and two cents to get an answer. But when she finally hears Allison's "Hello?" It feels like more than just a getaway from Stiles' oral talents. She's missed her voice.

"Its me," she manages, gripping at the phone too tightly.

"Lydia?" Allison asks, suddenly sounding excited. "Is that you?" She continues before Lydia has the chance to answer her. "Oh my god! Tell me how everything is going!" She demands, assuming what Lydia is yet to confirm.

"I-" she starts, on her way to confess, but then in the turn of the moment she changes direction abruptly, "Everything is great!" She announces, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Yeah we're- he's just- it's great." She stammers, and she knows it falls flat the second Allison groans on the other end.

"Alright, what happened?" She asks knowingly and Lydia surrenders almost immediately.

"He's being weird!" She shares, voice edging on annoyed. "He's- he's doing things!" She complains, pushing her sunglasses up on her head as she glances back at him, brow furrowed.

He's occupied elsewhere anyways, intensively staring at a bug that climbs up the wall of the ice-cream truck while the popsicle drips down his forearm. Oh god, it's sinewy and shit, she has to look away. So why the hell cant she?

"Things?" Allison tries to evoke her further.

He startles suddenly as the bug takes flight, stumbling out of the way, and when he straightens up he catches her eye, raising is free hand to wave enthusiastically towards her, making a thumbs up.

Now, she's able to turn away, rolling her eyes.

"Things!" She confirms, pulling at the phone-cord rather harshly to emphasise. "He's doing things." She whines.

"Things..." Allison mulls in her ear, and Lydia has neither the heart or the guts to confirm or deny.

"Things..." she repeats thoughtfully.

Then, it goes horrifyingly quiet on the other end as Allison takes a sudden breath.

"You think he's hot!" She gasps a second later. "Oh my god, you've got the hots for Stiles!" She exclaims loudly, and then proceeds to choke on her own laughter.

Lydia crosses her arms defiantly over her chest. "The hots? Are we living in the 1940s or something? Really Allison?" She snarks, ashamed with being found out.

She howls on the other end as Lydia sighs.

"I get it though," Allison squeaks out a couple of moments later, ignoring her. "He's got something going on for himself." She confirms.

"Yeah?" Lydia questions, jumping onto the opportunity to steer the conversation away from herself and her hots. "Like Scott got something going that's presumable right down your alley?" She smirks, all of a sudden back in safe territory.

"Oh no- " Allison interferes, "You didn't call to talk about me and Scott."

Lydia feels herself relax slowly, because she can already hear Allison caving, and knows she's probably brimming with things to tell her about. So instead of engaging in her own little, _ahem_ , problem, she opens yet again for Allison to continue.

"Doesn't mean we can't now that we're already on the phone." She points out, which is surprisingly all the encouragement Allison needs (which says a lot about how sold she is on this guy), and then she's off, blabbing Lydia's ear off with lovesick doubts and pining. She listens halfheartedly, because she knows Allison just needs someone to vent to.

Her own eyes stray eventually, trailing their way back to Stiles on their own accord, and finds him leaned against the truck a few meters away, hands void of popsicle and eyes back on her.

He smiles when she finally meets his gaze, and she feels like someone punched the air out of her lungs.

"Then he literally helped the old lady over the street Lydia!" Allison proclaims loudly in her ear, awe in her voice. "Like took her hand and everything, and-"

Lydia hums, eyes still fixed at the whiskey of his irises. Air whooshes back into her lungs as she takes a deep breath. She dares, a second later, to smile back.

 

••••

 

"This is your resumé?" She asks, eyebrows raised in what he now knows to be a dissatisfied way.

"God Lydia, cut me some slack!" He sulks.

"I am!" She exclaims loudly.

"But this-" she jabs her finger down in the middle of his resume. "This is barely a paragraph Stiles!"

"Cuz I haven't really had a day job before!" He explains, side-eyeing the practically empty paper in her hand.

"You helped your dad out at the station all summer, why haven't you put that down?" She questions slamming the paper onto his chest with the palm of her hand.

He's unprepared for how that makes something pleasant churn in his stomach. Because, she _knows_ things about him now?

"But it wasn't exactly an employment..." he answers, feeling unsure.

"So what? Resumes are for lying Stiles. Have you learned nothing from adolescence?"

She looks irritated, in her heels, lipstick and plaited skirt. She also looks totally hot.

She's prepared to go get a job. Looking down at himself, the regular combination of jeans, t-shirt and shrugged on flannel, he feels prepared to go get rejected a job instead.

"We need to start making money." She states, and he rolls his eyes, because it's not like he doesn't know this.

They both had a little savings, she presumable a much larger amount than him, but it's been a month, and he's starting to run dry and it would be nice to stay somewhere else than at a motel and for longer than a couple of nights.

He's currently sharing beds with her again. She's become more accustomed to his star-fishing-tendencies it seems, and more often than not he wakes up with one of them curled around the other.

He's fine. Fine. Totally fine.

Also, she hadn't looked too bothered as she had explained to him that _this motel too,_ only had one bed rooms available. He's suspecting a pattern, and he isn't complaining in the least. It's just. It would be nice to have like, a one bed apartment instead.

He thinks he can convince her into it if he just goes on about how much money and laundry it'll save them.

God he's pathetic. He's half in love with her and this is such a mess. Much like his resume.

"Fine, I'll fix it." He relents, snatching it back from her hand and turning back to his laptop where it's set up on one of the tables in one of Milwaukees public libraries.

They hadn't really set aim. They had just got into the car every morning, and eventually ended up here. But it seems far enough away from home to be comfortable, and he finds he actually kind of likes it here.

"So, uh- like..." he begins, and she groans loudly.

"Just lie Stiles!"

"Alrighty." He agrees cheerily.

It feels like what he's doing all day every day anyways. He's lying to himself, to her and to everyone else. He says he can do this, but doesn't really feel like it. He tells himself he's not in love with her. But feels _a lot_ like it. He keep answering his dads mile-long texts with; "I'll call soon.", but isn't really sure he will.

He lies to the both of them when he tangles his feet with hers under the table, and pretends to be deeply occupied by the empty word document open on his computer when she ducks her head down and smiles towards her own laptop as he does.

It's all a mess.

 

••••

 

Stiles does fix it. And it turns out okay. Okay enough for him to land a job at a coffee shop in the calmer parts of the city.

She of course, has an impeccable enough resume to be hired on the spot at the library they had sat in while writing them, and it all turns out okay when they find a reasonably cheap one bedroom apartment, furnitured, to rent for six months while the owner is travelling through Europe. Stiles promises to sleep on the couch but she has her doubts.

Neither of them mention what to do when that time is up.

Reality is, nine hours before she was supposed to start university she had jumped into a car with him and without further ado, they had just left. And this is were she ended up. She tells herself she can't know the answer. Not yet.

It's so... well. She doesn't know. It's been six weeks but it feels much longer, and the strangest thing is that she hasn't feel freaked out or panicked once since buckling down in the Jeep. She just signed the lease to rent an apartment with him for six months, and she's about to work a day job to come home to him.

They have no plans, only each other and that still unspoken fear of why neither of them had wanted to go away to university. They still don't talk about that, and she gets the creeping suspicion that she's not afraid of the same things anymore.

"We can't have juice with pulp Lyds, are you insane?" He questions as he tries to pile on two bags of gummy worms into their cart and simultaneously stock her chosen cartoon of orange juice back on its shelf.

"It's healthier!"

She stomps her foot, ripping the cartoon out of his hands and placing it back into the cart.

They're fridge-stocking, and unsurprisingly he's being a five year old about it.

"Ah, and as you've noticed during our time spent together, healthy juice is a big priority of mine." He snarks sarcastically and glares at her as she puts one bag of worms back, folding his arms over his chest.

"You get to pick cereal?" She tries to compromise, and succeeds, by the beaming smile that suddenly stretches over his face and how his arms unfolds instantly.

"Two brands?" He asks, and she rolls her eyes but nods.

"You're okay Lyds." He grins, leaning down to smack a kiss on her cheek before he skids away in direction of the breakfast supplies.

She stands frozen for a embarrassingly long time after he's disappeared down a aisle. She gulps, loudly, and then turns back so fast that her hair slides off her shoulder.

She stares at the juices, and she hates herself a little when she reaches for the pulp-free one.

She's got the hots, alright?

Leave her alone.

The hots seems like the _way_ better choice when she considers the option.

 

••••

 

The windows rattles as he slams to door to the apartment shut behind him and groans loudly.

"I can't _believe_ -" he begins, as he starts to unwind his scarf from around his neck and pulls out his earphones.

"That I, Stiles Stilinski," he rips of his mittens that Lydia refuses to admit are nicely warm, but steals every time she has to go down to the store at night.

"Have agreed to serve assholes coffee all day-" he shrugs off his coat and throws it in direction of the hanger, missing it narrowly, before toeing off his shoes.

"When I instead, could've been," he drags a hand through his hair, walks the few steps to the living room and then proceeds to faceplant onto the couch and into Lydia's lap where she's sitting with her laptop and some movie on Netflix playing on the TV.

"Been doing this." He finishes into the fabric of her skirt and she snorts as she pushes him off.

"That bad, huh?" She asks as he flops around onto his back.

He makes a noise and she nods.

"That sucks." She offers. He makes another noise.

"Nah, its fine now." He answers instead, although he'd been prepared to go on a five minute rant only seconds ago.

But now he's laying on the couch next to Lydia and she asked how his day was and because she's there and did, it's not so bad anymore.

"What are you feeling for dinner?"

She's got her eyes fixed on her laptop, biting her lip. He stares at where the skin flushes from her teeth and is suddenly hungry in another way. He averts his eyes, watching his fingers flex where they're resting on his thighs to keep them from reaching for her, and when he looks back up she's staring at them as well. He swallows. She looks back up.

"What?" She asks.

"Uh," he manages. Great.

"Oh!" She yelps suddenly, and he almost jumps with it.

"Pasta?" She suggests, sounding unsure, but she's leaning forward a bit, and he is straining himself from not letting his eyes slip down to her cleavage, because that's just _rude_ , but she's also sort of pouting and oh god.

He scrambles to sit up, and suddenly there's a little space between them on the couch and he's not sure if it feels better or worse.

"Pasta-" he says aimlessly, eyes still locked with hers. Is she, oh my god, she's licking her lips. And she's also staring at his throat where his t-shirt has been rucked a bit to the side, revealing his flushed neck.

"Pasta." He repeats more determinedly.

"Mhm." She agrees. "Sounds great Stiles." She smiles towards him, but her lids are dropping low and her voice sounds alluring to his suddenly turned on ears.

He stares at her, lips parting and he feels his breathing getting strained.

She pushes forward suddenly, and she's close, too close for him to think straight.

"You've got-" she lifts her hand, dragging her thumb along the outline of his bottom lip slowly. In the back of his mind he knows he's got nothing on his face, because he had caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he entered the apartment, but that part is very small. The rest of his brain is pretty much screaming. She's amazing. She's smart, strong, cunning and beautiful.

But they weren't supposed to end up here, where they?

Her hand lingers and his gaze shifts to her lips. They look inviting and he's pretty sure he could kiss her right now without getting slapped afterwards.

But a cold hand grips at his lungs. He wants it too much, likes her too much, and that's never good. Loving also means losing in his book. Love could be lips painted red, strawberry blonde hair and an extraordinary mind, but, he knows love is also a visit to the graveyard and the ring wrapped around his fathers fourth finger still. It's his mom and it's that gaping pain that paralyses him whenever he thinks about her for too long.

Thing is, he's not sure he could handle losing Lydia, and he's absolutely, with 100% certainty going to. Because sooner or later she's bound to start seeing him the same way he does when he stares into the mirror.  
She going to find him out, find the dark and the ugly and the boring that has nothing to offer her extraordinary.

So when he feels her lingering at his jaw, he pulls back from her small, warm hand carefully. Her hand retreats to her lap quickly, as if burnt, and he pretends nothing of it as he stands up slowly, averting his eyes.

"Pasta." He repeats, and with a small smile he suspects looks more like an apology he turns his back to her and walks away.

The second he loses sight of her he fears he's made the wrong choice. But he goes anyway, because the only way he knows how to love is to love too harshly, too much.

  
And so, he must go.

 

 

••••

 

 

"You're boyfriend is here."

Lydia looks up as Maggie, one of the elderly ladies she works beneath at the library winks at her and points to where Stiles is currently pressing himself up against the doorway to let a group of children and their teachers pass him by on their way out.

She snaps the folder she'd been occupied with shut and sends Maggie a warning look. Maggie is nice and all, she just have this disturbing little habit going on where she thinks that she knows things. Things she doesn't have a clue about.

"He's _not_ , my boyfriend." She says sternly, raising a warning finger towards her as Stiles, whom finally has gotten past the preschoolers, nears the reception desk they're standing behind.

"Oh no, sure he's not." Maggie smiles smugly, pushing her glasses higher up on the bridge of her nose, pretending to be busy with the printer.

  
"You only share an apartment together, and he only looks at you as if you're magic because he likes you as a friend, and you only stare at his butt when he leaves because you wonder where he bought his jeans and-"

"Hi Stiles!" Lydia exclaims loudly as he comes to a stop before them and glares at Maggie in the corner of her eye before proceeding to shoot him a big, only half-fake, smile.

He gives her a odd look.

  
"Hi?" He says, looking uncertain. Her smile falls a little, until he shrugs, seemingly deciding to ignore her acting weird, and lifts his arm to show her the paper bag he's surely brought from work and waggles his eyebrows at her.

"Brought you some goods from Satan's crib." He says, confirming her suspicion.  
He sets it on the counter and proceeds to rip it open and start to root through it as he speaks.

"I got off my shift early and I thought you might be having lunch break soon so I just thought I'd bring you some because honestly, I know we're not supposed to take shit but seriously no one counts and uh-" he fishes a muffin out of the bag and drops it into Maggie's waiting hands, shooting her a blinding smile before returning to the bag,

  
"And yeah anyways, I think they've only got themselves to blame if they don't do that and like, all of it never gets sold anyways and then we just throw it away, which I thinks sucks, but then I think of Ratatouille and I'm like 'Yeah! Maybe I'm providing for a little chef!' But then... y'know, reality comes crashing- and yeah, so I brought you..." He silences as he looks up, meeting her gaze as he extends a packed-up bagel towards her.

She knows how she's looking at him. But she just can't help it.

He's got his coat on over a grey hoodie and his stupid, giant scarf wrapped three thousand times around his neck and she can spot his ugly mittens shoved down his pocket.  
His hair is sticking up, as usual, in odd directions and the tip of his nose is a bit pink with the cold.

  
And he's right there. And she has to crane her neck a little to meet his eyes even though she's wearing heels. And he brought her lunch. And he doesn't think anything of it. And... and she thinks that this, how she feels, a little shaky and a lot like she wants to be closer, she thinks that she should really sit herself down and consider what that means.

But not right now though.

Right now she reaches for the bagel without breaking eye contact.

And when his lips closes promptly and he swallows visibly as their fingers brush, she ignores the voice in the back of her mind, telling her to consider this as well.

She thinks this isn't so bad. It's not so bad thinking she likes him if she likes him like this. Form a distance.

Thing is, as the places where his skin meets hers burns into her bones, it doesn't really feel like there's any distance at all. It feels like there's nothing solid left between them except maybe this desk and the air in her lungs.

Selfishly she wishes for him to take them both away. She wishes, for him to come closer.

 

••••

 

  
He's on his way home after a day of pouring coffee, smiling at customers, clearing tables, groaning in sync with Dean at the extra complicated orders and imitating annoying guests with Sarah.

He's got one earbud in and is only paying half attention to his surroundings. So naturally, he misses the university promoters as he passes the square, and therefore has no time at all to take a detour to avoid them. Instead he's stopped suddenly, by a flyer shoved up his face.

"Are you looking for an opportunity to serve your country?"

The guy looks harmless, he's almost a head shorter than Stiles and his smile is a bit crooked as he grins his way.

  
Stiles gets a war-flash to the last fiasco of election and literally every stupid thing the US has ever done as he scrambles to catch the piece of paper before it falls to the ground.

"Uh," is all he manages, because wow does he not want to become a marine, he's not great at saying no though, and the guy seems to take this his mumble as a cue to go on.

"The government is always in need of people willing to help stop the crime and George Washington filters through their applicants with strict care to make sure they find the most suitable candidates for the training program, they're also top rated in-"

The promoter goes on, but Stiles sort of zooms out as soon as his gaze gets caught on the flyer in his hand.

In big, bold, black letters it says "FBI training program" at the top, and something about it makes him stop for a beat.

  
He doesn't really know why, can't put a finger on as to why he suddenly feels halted in his line of thoughts, why there's the distinct feeling of something clicking inside of his head, falling into place.

His dad is in law enforcement and the station has been like a second home ever since his mom passed.  
He grew up watching these sort of workings take place in front of his eyes, and he's always had a knack for figuring out clues and connecting dots. Hell, he used to plead to Scotts dad to take them with him to work because the station was great, sure, but he wanted to be a real agent, like in the movies.

  
He's spent countless hours sneaking glances at his fathers case-files and has even been able to actually chip in on a few of them, although getting scolded severely beforehand.  
It's a great feeling, the one of being of use, and actually being able to help. He knows his own moral-compass is waving around in a huge grey area and that he has questionable ethics at times. But something still lingers as he stares down at the paper.

Of course he realises that it's not that simple. He understands that the actual job is something entirely different from what they show in the movies. Now Rafael is the bad guy and not the hero. He gets that it's mostly paper work, late hours and a hard toll. But the lone thought of it clings to him. Maybe.

"- and then of course our swimming team has-"

"Yeah, thanks but I have to keep going." Stiles interrupts the overly enthusiastic guy.

  
"Alrighty then! Please consider applying!" He answers and his small doesn't falter a millimetre. Stiles briefly wonders how he can stand being so nice, honestly what are these people on to help them find this kind motivation? And can he please have some?

He gives him a thin smile before moving on.

It's a nice fall day out. It's cold in the air but pretty colours on the trees that lines the sidewalks.

Maybe Lydia is already home? That would be nice. She's nice.

It's not far home from his job, and he jogs the last few steps up the stairs as he gets to their building.

It's not until he's starting to pat his pockets for his keys that he realises he's still holding the flyer. He eyes it for a moment, and he sort of means to throw it away, but instead he ends up folding it and pushing it down his pocket instead.

Maybe.

 

  
••••

 

  
"Stiles have you used my lotion again?"

"... no?"

"Stiles!"

"Fine but only because I love smelling like, and I quote 'apple tart'"

"Buy your own."

"But Lydia, Victoria haven't told me her secret yet."

"Where is it?"

"It's in the second drawer!"

"No it isn't!"

"It's in the second drawer."

"Stiles!"

"What!"

"It isn't."

"I swear to god Lydia, It's literally-"

He pushes past her at the doorway to the bathroom, starting to root through the second drawer, triumphant smile on his face as he presents the bottle to her only seconds later.

"Aha!" He grins as he tosses it to her, and she has to unfold her arms quickly to catch it.

"Stop using my things." She grumps, because she can't stand losing to him.

"I was rig-ht!" He sing-songs, wiggling his hips in time with it. "You were wro-ng!" He pumps his fist victoriously as she stuffs it away on her shelf beside the mirror.

He snags his toothbrush, reaching around her to get to it while shoving a beaming grin up her face. She knocks him away with her shoulder and he chortles at her sulking expression.

Ignoring him she snatches her own toothbrush up from the mug on the sink and flips the cap open on the toothpaste, layering extra thick on his as he waves for her to give him some.

Only when he's spitting for the fifth time, rolling his eyes at her in the mirror as they stand next to each other, can she let her grudge go.

He's in his regular time-for-bed combo; sweats and a t-shirt, and she's in shorts and a t-shirt of her own (it's his), face void of make-up, and hair in a high, messy ponytail beside him.

He's a ridiculous amount taller and broader than her when they stand like this, the top of her head only brushing his shoulder. He also looks offensively cute with how the toothpaste keeps lathering in the corners of his mouth.

She leans over to spit, and is just about to rinse her brush as she catches sight of him again.

  
It's entirely his fault when she feels mischief tickling up her throat and bubbling out as laughter when she chances forward with her toothbrush suddenly, dotting his nose with it. It leaves a nose of lather and he stares unbelievingly at her for a second before he leans over to spit again.

He meets her eyes in the mirror when he looks up again, wiping at his nose with the back of his hand, and before she can understand what's happening he has dropped his own toothbrush into the sink and is turning around launching for her.  
She shrieks with laughter as she flees him, taking cover behind the shower curtain.

"Lydia Martin-" Stiles says, smile in his voice as his shadow creeps closer on the fabric of the curtain. She slaps a hand over her mouth to contain the giggle that worms out of it.

"What have gotten into you?" He huffs, hovering dangerously close on the other side.

"I deem punishment is due!" He proclaims as he rips the curtain aside.

"No!" She chokes out, eyes widening as they meet his, which are shining with laughter.

But she's trapped and he shields her off against the wall with arms reaching up on either side of her.

"Stiles, don't-" she warns, but she can't seem to stop smiling.

"Lydia, I hereby sentence you to death by tickles." He says seriously, and then he reaches for her and she howls with laughter as he begins. It's not fair because he has somehow learned all her weak spots and she squirms underneath his hands, shrieking as he delivers his punishment.

"Stiles! Please-" she pants, as he squeezes at her sides.

"Only-" he snorts as she doubles over for a second.  
"If you admit I'm the best resume writer you know." He teases, hands moving upwards, and oh god, thats even worse.

"You're-" she pushes as his chest with her hands, but he doesn't budge an inch.

"ThebestresumewriterIknow." She smatters off in one breath.

His hands still immediately, and the smugness has left his smile when she looks up to meet his eye again. She puffs a strand of hair out of her face as she stares at him.

"Thank you." He grins, but it mutes almost instantly, to a softer, smaller one.  
His hand reaches up, brushing her cheek as he places the escaped strand of hair right, and she's suddenly very aware that his hands are still on her, his fingers sneaking at her skin where the t-shirt has been rucked up, and his heart-beat steady but fast under her palms on his chest.

And suddenly he isn't smiling anymore, he's staring at her and he looks terrified, but in the way someone does just before they jump, and he's just swaying a bit closer, and a bit closer means that his lips are almost hovering hers.

Her belly hurts from laughter and his hands are warm and large around her waist. His hair is getting longer and she only realises because some are hanging down over his forehead as it comes to lean against hers.

"Lydia-" he says. But there's no joke this time. Just a whimpering whisper as he speaks her name like a prayer.

"I need-" he starts, and she bolts forward capturing his lips against hers.

They're plusher than she would've thought and it makes her weak in the knees as he sighs against her, hand coming to rest at her jaw as he angles her head so that he can access her better when he opens up his mouth against hers.

  
It's like it's been shimmering underneath the surface of her skin since those first days on the run. And now all of it, every clawing rush of want since that day, boils up and spills over as she winds her arms around his neck and groans when he licks into her mouth.

  
He tastes like mint toothpaste and something else that makes her press closer, tongue meeting his before she sucks his bottom lip between her own.  
"Shit," he mumbles as they break apart for a breath. His eyelids are drooping and she wants to taste more so she pulls at his neck again.

  
His hand slides down her sides to rest at her hips and sneak under the waistband of her shorts just slightly. He pushes closer, the line of his body firm against her, and she gasps as he hoists her hip up so that he can step between her legs. Their lips are on each other but not really moving as they pant wetly.

"I've been wanting to do that for... I don't know how long," he admits against her, voice sounding raw.

"So don't stop." She manages, and a second later he slams back against her.  
His hands her feverish on her, and she's no better, her hand finds its way up the front of his shirt, nails scraping along his abdomen as he moans quietly. He begins pressing sloppy, hot, open mouthed kisses along her jaw and down her troath and as he begins sucking on her neck her free hand winds through the thick strands of dark hair on the back of his head.

  
Her breathing is shallow and she's shaking with lust for him. His hands are steady but trembling a little all the same, and after a while everything blurs. It's like a haze of skin and pulling fingers and warmth. It's a fog of his lips and tongue and their bodies pressing together as he murmurs nonsense against the lands of her body.

It doesn't end there, in the cramped, confined spaces of their shower.  
It ends on the bed, with twisting sheets and breaths hidden between them, suddenly inhaled or moaned into skin.  
It ends with him, invading everything, messy hair and hands tangled hard. It ends with her as she maps him out and him, when he travels over her skin as if he'd never needed a map in the first place.

She says it ends there, but reality is she isn't even sure where she ends, and he begins.

 

••••

 

"So then my professor called him out in front of the whole class and yeah, it was awesome." Allison finishes, closing line to another story about university.

It's not... Lydia isn't jealous. But the last couple of times she and Allison has talked and her best friend has started telling her about these things around the campus, her lectures and her roommate, Lydia has felt this pull beneath her ribs. She thinks it some sort of longing, but she clamps down on it every time it comes.

Like right now when she nods at Allison through the Skype window open on her laptop and smiles at her story.

"What class was it?" She asks, prompting for another rant, because she doesn't really feel like talking herself.

"It was behavioural a-"

The door to the bedroom cracks open and Stiles head pokes in.

Their eyes meet and she feels herself getting trapped in the earnest amber of his immediately. His hair is messy and his t-shirt stretches invitingly over his chest.

"Did you uh-" he begins, growing silent as he realises he's just interrupted Allison. She rolls her eyes at him, but has to press her lips together as not to smile when he scratches his head and his eyes slide towards her laptop.

"Hi Allison." He tries, raising his voice a little and Allison snorts over the speakers.

"Hi Stiles." She offers, and Lydia has the urge to laugh out loud.

"Yeah..." he trails off, hand moving down to rub over his shoulder.  
"Anyways, did you buy milk?" He asks, eyes finding hers again.

He blushes as he asks, and she smirks towards him. He's surely, much like her, thinking of the _accident_ that had toppled over the last cartoon they bought. Like, the accident that occurred this morning, hence why they needed to buy more milk in the first place.

  
A sex-related milk scandal. God, why isn't she the Carrie of Milwaukee yet? She should have a blog.

  
Thing is. Allison and Scott doesn't know, so he is trying to be casual, and failing completely.

  
Actually she's pretty sure no one out of Milwaukee knows. Though his friends from work knows for sure, because none of them had tried to hit on her when they went out for drinks with them the other night.

"No sorry, I didn't have time." She says, but there's a teasing note to her voice, because that's what he'd said this morning right before the sex-related milk scandal that made him ten minutes late for work took place.

He raises a brow as he leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest, letting the door slide open to reveal more of him.

"Oh you're sorry now, are you?" He asks, small smile playing on his lips.

"Well..." she smirks, twirling a strand of hair between her fingers, staring at him from where she's lying on her stomach diagonally over the bed.

"I'm sorry about not having time to buy milk. Not sorry about-"

"Oh my god. You two had sex didn't you?"

They both freeze, eyes growing wide as Allison's accusation reaches them through the speakers. They're silent for a beat to long, apparently.

"Aha! I knew it! I freaking knew it, Scott owes me ten bucks!" She exclaims and Stiles grows pale in the doorway.

"I'll-" he points his thumb over his shoulder, almost tripping as he takes a step back and fumbles for the doorknob.  
"Remove myself." He finishes, before scrambling to close the door behind him quickly, leaving Lydia alone in this mess.

Her eyes fall back to the screen where Allison is grinning widely, obviously occupied with working together a smug text message to Scott on her phone.

"Um-" Lydia tries, and then moves to pull her laptop towards her, trying to gather her thoughts.  
"We haven't Allison." She tries. By the look Allison sends her she also fails.

"Alright so we might have but-"

"But what Lydia? I think it's great you got together after seriously ogling each other the entire summer and-"

"That's the thing." Lydia points out, lowering her voice.

"Were not..." she trails off, and Allison's brow furrows as she tries to explain.

"You're not what?" She urges on.

Lydia is silent for a moment, blinking at the screen before she speaks up.

"Together. We're not together."

Allison falls back into her chair and groans loudly.

"Shit. I owe Scott ten bucks."

 

  
••••

 

 

He's got her backed up against the kitchen counter, tasting his latest baking experiment from his fingers.

He looks hilariously distracted by her lips sucking the strawberry glazing from his thumb, and so she can't help but play on it.

"Hm." She taps her chin with her index finger as she releases his finger from her lips, still cradling his hand in the both of hers as he hovers over her, head ducked down mostly to her level.

"I think a little too sweet?" She smirks as his lips part slightly.

"Really?" He mumbles, nosing along her hairline and then nudging against her cheek.

Alright. So maybe she's a little distracted as well.

"Yes," she breathes as he places a quick kiss right under her ear.

  
"Have you even tasted it yourself?" She tries, because it would be nice to at least try and uphold the image of cool she has presented him throughout high school.

"Mm... not really." He admits hands trapping her against his body as they come to rest on either side of her on the counter.

"Guess now would be as good time as any." He continues, and then goes on to take her face into his hands and pry her mouth open with his own.

He licks into her, tongue sliding over the roof of her mouth and then thoroughly against her own.

She realises what he's said only after she's given in and sagged back against the island, hands gripped hard in the front of his flannel. He's tasting it on her.

  
It takes her another second to realise how hot that is, and for her brain to calculate the exact time it would take them to get to the bedroom.

However, they're sadly interrupted by his phone as it starts to buzz where it lays on the kitchen table.

He groans, a displeased sound, as he steps away from her, licking his lips and reaching for his phone.  
The screen reads Scott, and she knows her plan is a lost cause at the smile that paints on his face upon seeing who it is. He slides to answer and mouths a sorry to her as he lifts it to his ear, nestling it between there and his shoulder.

"Hi scotty!" He greets his best friend cheerily, and Lydia can just make out a squeaky sounding voice on the other end.

It's easy to ignore though, with how his hands have started to play with the buttons of her blouse as he hums into the phone, and maybe, her plan is still partly in motion.

He nods for her to jump onto the counter and after rolling her eyes, she does as he's asked her. One of his hands comes to rest on her thigh, slowly inching upwards as he continues to ask Scott about UC Davis, and his other hand proceeds to start unbuttoning her top.

She nearly groans as his fingers sneak under her skirt and skims at the edge of her panties, but he lifts a finger to his mouth, motioning for her to be silent, so she bites down on it. He smirks then, like the little shit he is, and she smacks him impatiently on the shoulder, which makes him almost drop the phone as he flails a bit, fingers flexing over her thigh as he regains balance.

  
Now it's him who rolls his eyes as leans in quickly to press a kiss against her throat.

He chuckles at something Scott has said as he gets the last button open, and the white fabric slides down her shoulders revealing the maroon bra she's wearing underneath.

His eyes shifts darker at the sight of it and he licks his lips. Before she has another second to watch the movement of that, his hand dips inside of her underwear and her eyes flutters closed at the sensation.  
His fingers slide against her folds a couple of times, feeling how damp she already is, before he pushes a long, knobby finger inside of her. Her hands clamp down on his forearm as he does, gripping it tightly, but not to stop, rather to cling onto because she's suddenly feeling shaky.

"Keep going." She grits at him, eyes fighting to keep open as he pushes inside again, setting an torturously slow pace as he thrust at her. He leans towards her, free hand gripping at her thigh to keep her steady.

"That's great Scott!" He says cheerily into the speaker as he crooks his finger and hit just the right spot.

A whiny breath emits from her lips and he coughs into the microphone to cover it up. She decides to play dirty herself then, leaning forward to drag her lips across the broad expanse of his throat before sucking on a spot just beneath his jaw. She leans back seconds later, pulling him in by the hand she winds through his hair.

  
Their eyes meet and they stare at each other for all of three seconds before he gives in. It usually takes her shorter.

  
He exhales unsteadily and then obviously interrupts Scott in the middle of a sentence. He squeezes his eyes shut, one hand still pumping inside of her, and tries to concentrate.

"Scott, man? So sorry, but could I call you back? Great. Bye." He finishes quickly, obviously not waiting for a response and barley able to finish the call before he has discarded his phone and dove right into her again.

  
They clash together, tongue and teeth and her hands pulling at him. She lifts the hem of his shirt, mumbling an "off." Against his lips, and he leans back, hand reaching back and pulling it over his head so that he can drop it on the floor. As soon as he's rid of it, he makes sure her blouse is soon to join it.  
He adds another finger, leaning down to kiss down the valley of her breasts before he continues down her body, until he's on his knees in front of her .

"Stiles," she pants, and he looks up at her, eyes dark and hair mussed up from where he pulled his shirt overhead. He closes his hands around her thighs, and pulls her suddenly so that she's sitting on the very edge of the island. His fingers hooks around her panties, drawing them down her legs at a painful pace, leaving her in only bra and skirt.

She's still got her hands in his hair, and her eyes nearly roll back into her head as he leans in and his mouth ghosts over her. But then he finally sets his mouth to her and she exhales with a high-pitched noise as he does.

  
He starts slow, but then begins working her in earnest, hands keeping her steady where she sits.

She falls over the edge soon after and when he emerges from beneath her skirt his lips are glistening wet and his eyes dim with arousal.

"C'mere," she manages, still high on the aftershocks of her orgasm and not quite there, but enough to pull him up and reel him in towards her.

When he leans down to kiss her he tastes sweetly of the both of them, and she wants them to merge even further. Wants to taste like him as well.

"Too sweet for you?" He smirks as she pulls back from the kiss, and she shoots him a death glare before reaching down and unbuckling his pants. That makes him shut up fairly quickly, and he groans as she shoves them down his legs.

"As much as I like it when you use your mouth for good Stiles," she smiles.  
"Right now I want something else."

She shoves his boxers down without further ado and he covers his eyes with a big hand as she takes him in her grasp. "I- you-" he says, suddenly incoherent. But the he gathers himself up, hand coming around her neck as he crashes their lips together once more.

His fingers smoothes along her leg, parting them slightly more so that he can step between them fully, and she wastes no more time in leading him straight to her entrance.

"God, Lydia-" he mumbles, and then he pushes, deliberately slowly into her. She wraps her arms around his neck and his come to rest all the way around her waist as he presses her against him, burying his face in the crock of her neck. For a moment they're both still, both silent with air caught in their lungs and the feeling of each other. But then he starts moving and she bites into his shoulder lightly as to keep from emitting any too loud sounds.

He holds her tightly against him through it, and she clings to him the same way, face pressed into the place where his neck meets his shoulders, sometimes pressing a kiss into the skin there. They topple over the edge almost at the same time and when they're finished he keeps holding her for a moment longer, face coming up to search for her eyes. She's winded and emptied as he meets them, and so she doesn't think she really has the capacity to hide whatever it is he's searching for in them.

But he doesn't say anything, just pecks her on the lips once, and smiles when she does.

"Great glazing." She offers him, still hovering close. He snorts, but for the moment, she knows she's got him.

 

  
••••

 

 

He swallows nervously as the signals starts erupting in his ears, fingers tapping nervously at the table in the lunchroom and foot wiggling under his chair.

He's just about to hang up, relived with the lack of answer, as the signals end abruptly and his dads voice reaches him across the phone.

"Yes, this is the Sheriff speaking?"

He stills, hand suddenly frozen and mind blank at the sound of his fathers voice.

"Uh," he manages, swallowing and then scrambling upright, pressing the phone harder to his ear. "Hi dad."

"Stiles? Is that you?"

He closes his eyes briefly, as he for the first time allows himself to feel how much he has missed his father. Guilt traps inside him immediately and his hand closes into a fist. God, Noah deserves someone better than him. He deserves a son who doesn't skip on important life decisions and disappears without a word for three months. He's selfish though, and he loves his dad. So he answers.

"Yup." He says, popping the 'p'. "Good ol' me, calling you up and-"

"Are you alright?" Noah interrupts him, with a concerned voice.  
"I mean god, are you- where are you? Have you've been eating? Is Lydia with you?"

He wants to smile at the worried note of his fathers voice, soak it up and float in it for a moment as he remembers what it feels like being scolded at a daily basis. Instead though, the corners of his lips pull downwards and he swallows away the lump suddenly forming in his throat. Noah's mad, he's sure, but right now he's thrilled with hearing his sons voice again, doesn't have time to scold before he makes sure he's alright. The reality of that coils warmly in his stomach.

"Yeah I'm, yeah." He begins, pulling at the neck of his t-shirt.  
"Dad I'm in Milwaukee. Me and Lydia. We're... well I guess we're sort of living here? I'm at work right now and-"

"Hold on. Wha... I mean, Milwaukee? And you're alright? Where are you staying?" Noah interrupts.

Stiles nods, before realising that the sentiment of it is lost over the phone and he speaks up again.

"Yeah we've been renting this apartment and Lydia also found a job and... we're okay." He explains.

"I've... I'm good dad. And..." he pokes at a dent in the table, taking a deep breath before taking the bull by its horns.

"I'm sorry I haven't called." He says.  
"I'm sorry I left dad, but I just-"

"Stiles." His father interrupts once again.  
"I'm sorry about that too. I'm sorry for not knowing why you felt like you had to leave in the first place, alright?" Noah sighs on the other end before picking up again.  
"But right now I'm just glad to hear your voice. Right now, I just want you to tell me about everything, so that I can go to bed soundly tonight, alright?"

There's a silence, and he feels the stupid lump in his throat scratching as he tries to find something to say.

"Explain when you can, and please pick up when I call from now on." His father requests. "That's all I'm asking."

"Yeah I can-" Stiles' voice is thick with emotion as he speaks up again, but his father knows him too well to mention it, and he's eternally grateful for that.

"I can do that." He manages finally, and feels like something settles in him when he does.

He's in love with Lydia. His dad doesn't hate him. He's not living in a dumpster down a alley.

This, he thinks, is what they call progress.

 

  
••••

 

  
"No mom- that's not..."

"Would you just stop instigating that I'm selling drugs?"

"No, he didn't talk me into it, I choose to go by myself."

"You're not selling Prada."

"No I don't need any money."

"No."

"No, I'm not coming home."

He's eavesdropping into Lydia's conversation with her mom. Although he's not sure it can be called eavesdropping when she's literally lying opposite him on the couch, kicking at his feet when she thinks he takes up to much space.

He pretends to be watching Catfish, it's a really emotional episode and he wishes he could concentrate, it's just that listening in on Lydia is so much more interesting.

He'd tried to casually drop it into conversation the other day, that 'oh hey, by the way, I talked to my dad today'. Of course it hadn't went down exactly like he had planned it out.

She'd frozen where she had laid next to him on the duvet, playing with her phone, hands stilling on the display as he tried to smooth over it.

It was like he had broken a part of their unspoken pact, and he was scared of what that meant.

He's actually not sure he took an actual breath until her shoulders had relaxed out of their rigid position and sunk back down as she kept on swiping at candy crush.

"That's great Stiles." Was all she had said.

And then today she had plopped down on the couch next to him as soon as she came home from work, telling him that; "I think I'm going to call my mother." Which she then had pulled her phone up and done a moment later, starting the conversation he was now eavesdropping into.

Her stocking-clad feet pushed under his calves and her cold toes curled as she managed to get them underneath.

"No were not." She explains, and he wonders if he really wants to know what she's talking about.

  
"No he's not." She says next eyes shifting towards Stiles, and he pretends suddenly to be deeply invested in the lesson about staying safe on the internet he's receiving from the TV.

  
Her toes nudge at him and he turns his head to look at her. She pouts her lips at him in a silly face, and whatever he'd been thinking about or feeling before melts away as she tries to make him smile.  
He tries to force the corners of his mouth down as she proceeds to roll her eyes at something her mother is going on about.

"Yes mom. I'm sorry." She says pointedly and finally he grins at her. She raises a well defined eyebrow at him, but he sees the smile in her eyes.

He starts to wriggle on the couch, until he can get himself up above her, nudging her legs apart so that he can crawl in between them, and flop down with his head on her stomach as he winds his arms around her middle.

  
She makes a purring sound as he nestles his nose in under her shirt and places a peck on her belly before dropping his head down to rest where his lips had been only moment earlier.

He sighs as she lets her free hand card through his hair. She's wearing a soft fabric skirt and a knitted sweater that itches at the side of his face pressed against her.

Her toes are cold but her body is warm and he soaks in it. He feels so content in that moment that he doesn't even bother listening into what she's saying anymore. He just lies there as she combs his hair back over his head, eyes slowly drifting shut to the sound of her voice and the commercials on the TV.

Usually he can never go to sleep properly. Usually he stays up half the night fucking around on his laptop. Usually he's never really still, fingers always moving or foot always tapping. But right now, he feels completely calm as he steadily falls asleep on her in their couch, not even spending a single thought to as of how he ended up there in the first place.

He loves too hard, too much, he spends an entire hour every Christmas night alone in his room staring at the roof and silently talking to his mother. Right now though, he spends every single day in Lydia's arms somehow, and he's going to take as much of that as he can get for as long as he has it.

Even if it ends. Even if it hurts. This, this feeling in this moment, will forever be his.

 

  
••••

 

 

Its late November when it actually starts snowing. Stiles freaks out, forces her to bundle up and drags her out by the hand even though it's 11 pm and both of them are working the next day.

  
She's grumpy at first, pulling at her coat and rubbing at her nose in the cold, but when he starts trying to catch snowflakes on his tongue on the empty street outside of their building she feels herself melting alongside the few flakes he's actually able to catch.

"It's actual snow Lydia." He stands with his hands at his waist as he spectates the covered ground. "Wow." He adds, and she snorts at how seriously he says it.

"It's only frozen water." She informs him, as if he couldn't possible have a clue to this.

  
He smirks as he side-eyes her and nudges her in the side.  
"Stop ruining it. Melt Lyds."

She sniffs a little, burrowing deeper into her scarf to hide her smile as he does.  
"I'm cold." She states instead, although he already knows he's winning her over. He turns to her abruptly.

"What?" He blinks at her.

"I'm cold."

He rolls his eyes as he starts peeling of his neon green gloves.

"I told you to put on more clothes," he complains.  
"But did you listen? No of course not. And now-"  
He pulls off his beanie and shoves it down over her ears pointedly;  
"Suddenly, it on my conscious if you freeze to death. Death Lydia," he points out as he starts buttoning up her coat properly.  
"Death as in eternal rest. Could you really go knowing you were putting that on me?"  
He rubs his hands up and down her arms a couple of times.

"Better?"

She's warm yes. But she's not sure if it's the extra layers he's piled upon her or him and his stupid self as he makes sure she's okay.

"Better." She admits, pushing forward to steal a short kiss before she turns away, bending down to scrape up some snow.

"Oh no." He warns her as she starts packing it together in her hands.

"Oh _yes_." She answers, patting the snowball a few more times before taking a few steps back and flinging it at him.

She's only a couple of meters away, and so it lands sadly on it shoulder and sticks for a moment before then snow slips down his coat back to the ground with a small thump. He stares at her.

"You've woken the beast." He announces happily, before he bends down to gather a snowball of his own.

"Honestly I've never heard that sentence spoken in a way that chills me less-" a snowball hits her in the face and she stands stunned as she blinks snow from her eyelashes.

Slowly she lifts a hand, wiping off her cheek and then aims a finger towards him.  
"You're dead." She smiles sweetly at him, and he howls with laughter as she sets after him and he begins running in opposite direction.

  
She chases him, and they both bend down now and then to pick up snow to throw at each other.

"Mercy!" He cries finally, a couple of minutes later, as he flings himself down in the snow.

"The beast resides! I've fallen!" He claws at his chest in an overly dramatic manner to provide vivid imagery for his defeat and she scoffs at him where he lays at her feet.

"Here." He pats the ground beside him for here to lay down next to him. She scrutinises it closely before shaking her head.

"I'll get wet."

"But Lydia!" He pouts up at her, "we were going to make snow angels!" He says, moving his arms up and down in a vague gesture for her to understand.

She watches him for a second. Lips and cheeks bitten red by the cold, clear, always attentive golden brown eyes shining up at her, like her own personal sun in the cold winter night, and lean limbs sprawled out on the ground moving in the most square snow angel she's ever seen.

"Fine." She relents, because who is she kidding, she's already wet and she really wants to lie beside him for a moment.

He smiles at her as she lays her head down next to him in the snow.

Small snowflakes have stuck to his eyelashes and she thinks that maybe they are stardust surrounding him. His own solar system wafting in his lashes as he blinks rapidly.

"What's so great about this?" She asks, moving her arms aimlessly to please him as she tries to make a angel of her own.

"Well," he begins, still looking at her, but with something more grave in his eyes. His hand reaches over to hers, his bare fingers grasping at the mittens he shoved on to her earlier.

"You're here, for starters."

 

••••

 

  
She's home alone one day when she spots an ad for MIT in her browser. She means to click it down, but instead ends up on an hour long spiral about their classes. She reads and reads and feels herself getting more and more excited as she does.

They _do_ have a nice campus, and a top-rated math program. They've also got an interesting other few courses and a grant that, if approved, could allow a research position in the future.

  
She knows she could get in. Honestly, she could get in anywhere she applies, she's just not sure why she chose Stanford last time. It closer to home, of course, but that's not something she's prioritised, rather she thinks she prefers the distance to Beacon Hills.

It's not like she's about to go on and apply right now or anything, and therefore she's not sure why she hurries to click the webpage down when she hears Stiles' keys rattle in the door.

Maybe it's because when he yells his greeting she smiles without thinking, and the fact that the webpage to MIT feels more like a goodbye and a cold hand wrapping around her shoulder, than his warm arms as they engulfs her as he crawls onto the couch.

She's not fooling herself to think that this, them, whatever it is they have going on here, whatever love is, could go on forever. Knows for a fact it won't.

They have a six month contract on the apartment and she's knows she'll want to go to school soon, as soon as she's certain. But at the same time she doesn't want this to end. Wants for him to stay, stay, stay.  
Wants his smile directed her way always and his eyes to look her way all the time. Doesn't really know how to forget him now that he feels engraved in her bones, with his fingerprints all over her skin and his voice stuck in her head.  
Whatever this is, whatever love is, she thinks that now, it's him.  
She's not sure if leaving it or losing it scares her more.

 

••••

 

"Is it icky that I says 'us' whenever dad asks about something?" He questions, eyes far away as he stares out the window of the Jeep.

She's driving and she's not sure how the hell that happened. Or if it really should, because the gearstick is a bitch to work.

She rolls her eyes as she takes a left turn.

"Yes." She supplies him and he sighs loudly.

"I think he suspects the sex-part of 'us'," he admits cheerily to her, leaning over the fiddle with the heat on the dashboard, and she resists the urge to roll her eyes yet again, because he sounds so smug when he says it.

"How great." She quips sarcastically.

"Isn't it?" He grins at her when she glances over.

There's a silence, and she feels it that there's something more about it that he wants to say. He just has to let the sentence form on his tongue first. She feels it, so she keeps quiet.

"He- well, um..." he starts, hands nervously dragging through his hair and then coming to clamp down on his thighs.

"He asked what will happen when the lease is up." Stiles finally gets out. Her grip on the steering wheel hardens and she feels nervous all of a sudden. In the corner of her eye she can see him staring down at his hands where they lay in his lap.

  
She suspects he's expecting some sort of answer to that, but when she stays quiet it spurs him on and he starts talking again.

"So um, yeah I told him that I was probably going to apply somewhere I guess. I don't know but-"

"Yeah me too." She hears herself answering, suddenly interrupting him. She trains her eye steadily on the road before them and refuses to glance over at him.

"Yeah?" He asks, sounding a little breathless.

"Yes." She replies quickly. Too quick.

She feels strained, her voice sounds emotionless and she finds that there's a stupid urge for her to blink away wetness in her eyes all of a sudden. Her voice raises an octave as she continues, not sounding like herself. She feels as if there is someone else speaking too, so she detaches herself from the situation strangely.

"I mean obviously I can't stay here for too long. I need to study on. I need to move on." She says, and she feels cold although he's just turned up the heat.

Now it's him who stays quiet, and she relents as she glances over at him again. She feels her stomach drop when he's still staring down at his hands. Her mind goes, unbidden, to the ad in her browser from a couple of days ago.

"MIT." She tells him suddenly.  
"It's practically as far away from Beacon Hills and everything in it as you can get so obviously that's a perk, and they have the best Math program in the country." She hears herself tell him as she pulls up at their usual spot outside of their building.

It's stings even as she says it, like a stitch to her chest. It's true Beacon Hills doesn't exactly have a warm place in her heart. Rather a cold and distant dark corner of it. But it's there.

She knows every pavement and turn of street in that town, and it's true it has many memories she's not too fond of. Like the towering quality of Jacksons house every time she drives by, or the small restaurant her parent had taken her to tell her about their divorce.

But it's also true that the Argents house feels like a safe haven, somewhere she can always go. It's true that this is the town where she grew up and where their mailbox still has a small dent from when she first learnt to ride a bike. It's part of her, and will always be.

But she fears him suddenly, as she thinks of how he seems to have occupied a big and bright spot in her heart, much larger than the small town in California. As she thinks about it she realises he's got vital things of her in the palm of his hand, in the look of his eyes. His place is too big, and the prospect of losing him suddenly too dangerous. She's Lydia Martin and she doesn't need anyone. She feels her throat tightening, feels as if she's being cornered all of a sudden.

"What about Allison?" He asks, voice hushed. She turns the car off and the air goes eerily quiet around them. She can't seem to face him, so instead she stares ahead.

  
"She's from Beacon Hills." He points out carefully, and she gets the feeling he's really asking about something else. About someone else. She thinks they're both aware of it.

"Allison is a rare exception." She answers, and she means for it to come out jokingly, but it ends up sounding flat.  
In the corner of her eye she can see his hands flexing on his thighs, can see his expression set into something tight.

Hes quiet for a moment. Then he pushes his door up harshly, climbing out before she has a chance to react.

"Great." Is all he says, and then slams the door shut, the sound of it ringing in her ears as she sits still for a beat and watches his back as he goes, shoulders hunched and jaw set.

She wants to run up after him. Wants to ask him if he could come with her, or maybe not but at least try to make it work. Wants to ask if he wants to be with her, because somewhere along the way they've made the choice to skip that conversation.

But she has already retreated. They've been holed up in this fantasy for too long and she knows that it'll hurt. But she also doesn't want to need him. She wants to be able to go. Wants to be strong. So if she starts ripping of the bandaid now, then maybe the actual blow will hurt less.

As she climbs out of the car and follows him inside though, she already knows it won't.

 

  
••••

 

 

"Hi." He says as he falls down next to her on the bed.

Her heart climbs up in her throats as he does. She's lying on her side and he rolls over so that he's facing her. The sun that is shining in through the window falls on him and colours his face vividly. His eyes look set alight, his lips bitten red and his high cheekbones more prominent. He looks jarringly pretty. But the look in his gaze is grave and almost sad as it falls in line with hers, and maybe that's why it thumps heavily inside her ribcage.

They stay silent for a moment, just looking at each other. The pastel yellow of their bed-case and the way his cheeks are a bit ruddy with warmth makes her feel like maybe she's imagining him there next to her.

She lets her fingers slide over the duvet carefully, keeping his gaze locked in hers.

They haven't really touched or talked very much outside of dinner plans and every other night when they turn of their lights and it easier because she can't really look him in the eye.

She is now though, and feels strangely naked under his gaze when she finds his hand that's laid still on the mattress between them.  
He says nothing and doesn't move as she lets the pads of her fingers dance across the back of it. Just holds her eyes steadily, chest rising and falling with his breathing.

She paints with the veins on his hand, and after a while her fingers dare to slide a bit higher up on his arm, tracing the path of them.

She doesn't break eye contact but feels put under a magnifying glass as he looks. Feels as if he is stripping her bare into the bone, exposing whatever it is she hides with lipstick and heels. Feels like he's seeing too much. Feels like she's letting him.

Her breath hitches a little when he, without any warning angles his arm, allowing her better access. And she can't help it then.

"Are we ok?"

Her question is barley a whisper, and she is already painfully aware of the answer. But maybe if she asks he can change her mind. Like he has about so many other things. Like Captain Crunch and juice with pulp. And maybe love.

It settles in her more calmly then and there than she ever could've imagined.

She loves him.

Loves his mind and how she feels better when he's around, loves how he challenges her and lets her take the good corner of the couch. Loves how he sings in the shower and smells of fresh laundry and boy. Loves his restless body and how he never, ever makes her feel small, but rather big, big, bigger.

He blinks slowly at her question, staring her down until her hands are pressing hard on him. Urging an answer she knows she doesn't want.

Instead, he lifts a heavy palm to her cheek and draws her into a gentle kiss.

It's just their lips pushing against another at first, but her eyes flutters close at the contact. His mouth is warm on hers and her chest aches with the movement. She loves him.

A feverish want for him bolts through her all of a sudden. Burning desire setting low in her belly and making her hands tremble as she lets them smooth further up his arm beneath the sleeve of his t-shirt.

  
She sighs against him as he nudges her closer to him and pries her lips apart with the wet, hot slide of his tongue.

His hand moves from her hair to her waist pulls her carefully, flush against him.  
His movements are slow and deliberate, while she feels manic as she clings to him. She opens her mouth further as she meets his tongue with hers and sighs as his fingers skin down low on her stomach, slipping beneath the waist of her skirt.  
They stay there for a while, as he kisses her slowly and throughly. She wants to beg him to go on, to touch her, but her words are caught in her throat.

When his fingers finally dip lower she's already wet for him and her hands have moved to the sides of his face, grasping at him like a lifeline. She pants against his lips as he slips inside of her and immediately starts working her over the edge. His fingers move expertly and she falls easily when he gently pushes her onto her back.

He stays on his side beside her, pushing up on his elbow to keep kissing her. It doesn't take long, and yet it feels like everything is moving too loopy, like in a dream-like quality and slow motion, as he crooks his knuckles just right and she comes with a high-pitched sigh.

He stays close, forehead against hers as she comes down from it. And when she rolls onto her side, hands moving for his belt he stops her, shaking his head gently.

"But-" she manages, voice raspy from her high. But he just shakes his head, and then leans forward to kiss her once more before retreating to the same position as before they had started.

She does too then, and it's a strange fluency to falling back into his eyes again. They're still fully clothed and the sun still  
hits his face the same. Its almost as if it never even happened and that makes an empty, hollow space carve within her.

His eyes flutter closed and he falls asleep eventually. Only then does she dare to lift her hands to his face again, stroking it cautiously as he sleeps soundly beside her.

She writes it into his skin. Safe in the knowledge that he's somewhere far away.

" _I'm sorry._ " She writes.

And then, as her fingers brush, oh so carefully, over his eyelids she whispers it too him as well.

"I love you."

It's only as she feels herself drifting away that she realises he never answered her question.

 

••••

 

  
She's working Christmas Eve, because apparently Milwaukees libraries are overly committed to their clients and actually cares.

Its great money though, so she isn't complaining.

It's also a place to be that isn't the numbly silent apartment, that he seems to never be in anymore, always picking up extra shifts at the coffee house. She sits alone most evenings before he crashes into bed beside her late at night, late enough for her to pretend to be asleep.

Sometimes he kisses her when they're home at the same time. It's not the same though, of course it isn't.

  
She told him he's part of something she doesn't want, and he's slowly packing up more and more pieces of himself everyday because of it, prying them from her stiff fingers as she tries to remember how to make him laugh.

It used to be easy, easier than it should've been, because they didn't really know each other, did they? And now, well. Now it isn't. Now she knows him too well, knows that she hurt him, knows that he's hurting her.

  
That's probably why it felt easier pushing send on her application for the spring semster at MIT than unlocking the front door last night.

So, she's working Christmas Eve. Because the money is good and because the place she feels the most home in is in another part of town pouring coffee and laughing with his colleagues.

She's just returning from her break, noting on how dark it is outside when she looks up and meets Maggie's vary gaze as she comes around the desk to stand beside her.

She narrows her eyes, brows furrowing as Maggie stares at her with wide eyes.

"What?" She demands, arms folding over her chest.  
"Do I have something on my face?"

Maggie swallows, eyes falling to the floor and then flickering back to her face as she wrings her hands in front of her.

"You've seemed so sad lately." Maggie states quietly, and Lydia freezes.

"I-" she begins, feeling herself loading up to go on a rant to explain that none of anything about Lydia Martin is her business. But Maggie interrupts her before she's able to start. And maybe that's good, because truth is, she really likes Maggie.

"He came by with that when you were on your break." She says, nodding to the counter behind Lydia, and she feels her mouth turn dry and her ugly words dissipate on her tongue as she does.

She turns abruptly, hands suddenly feeling shaky as she unwinds her arms and lets them fall to her sides.

There's a small, prettily wrapped present stood on the counter, the orange and blue wrapping of it stark against the wooden tabletop.  
There's a piece of paper folded neatly in the middle pushed in underneath it and she can make out his handwriting on it even from where she's stood.

She swallows, hands smoothing down her skirt before she takes the few steps forward to reach it.

She looks around, seeing that the library is vacant and that Maggie is suddenly very occupied with labelling a book behind her before her trembling hands reaches for it.

She unfolds the paper first, and has to blink at the sudden wet blurriness in her eyes before she can read it.

 _Lydia_.

_I'm working early tomorrow so I probably won't see you for the entire day._

_Saw this in the window and thought of you._

_Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah;_

_Love, Stiles._

  
There's a single tear on her cheek as she sets it down, and she wipes it away angrily before reaching for the present. She wants to be careful, fold the wrapping up and save for later, when he's long gone.

Instead, she rips it off in seconds.

Its a necklace. Thin, gold chain laid out prettily inside a red velvet box. On it hangs a small plate, and on it is a short engraving.

 _1+1=2_ It says.

She's never been big on emotional support, but Maggie's hand on her shoulder as more dumb tears start falling down her cheeks, is strangely comforting.

 

••••

 

"Scott is coming to visit tomorrow."

He tries to say it causally. Throwing it out as he sits as far away from her on the couch as possible.

She looks away from the TV, looking dumbstruck for a moment.

"Scott is..." then she closes her eyes briefly, and when they open again an annoyed crease has formed between her brows.

"Scott is coming here _tomorrow_? And you're telling me this the day before he arrives?" She's irritated and he feels weirdly pleased at that.

He shrugs nonchalantly and turns back to the TV. Because he knows that it will annoy her further.

"Yeah, so what?" He quips, and his voice comes out as bored.  
In the corner of his eye he sees her going rigid on the couch.

"So what? Are you for real?"

Great. Now she's angry too.  
He turns to her again, eyebrows raised and a plain expression on his face in response.

"You didn't even think to ask me first?" She demands staring at him as if he's lost his mind.  
He hates that it gets to him, but can't help it as he goes to reply.

"Oh, you mean like you ask me about everything?"

He knows his brows are knitting too, mirroring hers, and that he's no longer sounding bored, but rather mean, , knows she knows that he's referring to the letter from MIT that had fallen down their mailbox earlier in the week.

"Oh grow up Stiles." She answers, arms crossing as she stares defiantly at him.

"Yeah that's fair coming from you." He spits, standing up from the couch abruptly, gathering his dishes and walking away into the kitchen.  
He hears the soft pads of her feet as she gets up and follows him.

"You literally just walked out on the conversation and you're telling me that I'm the immature one?" She throws at his back.

He sets the plate down hard in the sink before turning to her.  
"That's rich considering how you go vacant at literally any sign of confrontation Lydia!" He shouts, pointing at her and voice rising as he feels anger flare in his chest. It feels almost good. It feels better than empty.

"Says the one who agreed to run away with me to skip on UNI, you're no better Stiles! Stop pretending to be!" Her voice is rising too and she's stomping at him as tears gleam in eyes in the dimmed kitchen light.

He scoffs. "Oh well, at least I don't walk around thinking that I'm better than everyone! I'm glad you deemed someone as low as me worthy for your little adventure." He snarls, staring at her and his chest is heaving with it.

"Stop! Stop pretending your better!" She steps forward shoving at his chest as she speaks, and he sways a little with it as her small hands connects with the front of his t-shirt.  
"I couldn't have confronted you if I wanted too. You're never here anyways!" She yells at him, shoving again so that his back connects with the kitchen counter.

"You haven't exactly expressed any indication that you'd wanted me to be either!" He points out, taking a step to the side and turning so that she's suddenly the one trapped.

"You wouldn't know!" She shouts.  
"You wouldn't know because your never even here!" She reminds, eyes burning with something that leaves him suddenly shaken. He feels his shoulders sag as he looks at her.

Why is it so hard? Why is it so hard. He's not even sure they've really said what they're fighting about, because apparently they cant communicate like normal people.

He feels a coward when he speaks up next, choosing the easy route out.

"So I might as well leave then." He states, arms folding over his chest.

He sees it on her. She's the moment the fight dies in her eyes and she seems to draw back in on herself, becoming smaller in front of him. And that's not right, and maybe that's why he did it.

But she's as stubborn as him. So she mirrors his stance and averts her eyes.

"I guess." She offers, and he feels almost relived as he nods, accepting this.

"Fine." he says, moving forward and pushing past her as he rips his jacket from the hanger and pulls on his shoes.

"Fine." She retorts, but her voice is small.

He doesn't dare to look back as he steps out and slams the door shut behind him. Only relents to wipe at his eyes when he's already two blocks away.

Why is it so hard? Why is it not simple, when he loves her?

 

••••

 

  
She wakes up the morning after their fight and his things are gone.

Allison informs her quietly with a too careful voice that Scott met him up early in the morning and that they left in the Jeep.

She thinks she cries in the shower but can't be sure as it mixes with the water.

She throws out his ugly star wars mug and sleeps in a t-shirt he left behind for two weeks straight, until it only smells like her.

The spell is officially broken. And she's alright. Really.

She's alright.

 

 

••••

 

  
It's early morning February the second, and its five weeks since he last saw Lydia.

He knows this, not because he keeps an active count, but because the two letters he received in his mailbox earlier in the day informs him so.

One is telling him that after a fair amount of tests that has taken place over the last few weeks he's been accepted into starting the spring semester at George Washingtons training program for the FBI. Which is great. It is. It's also probably the only thing in his life that is.

The other letter, crinkled and messy as he clamps it in his hand, is telling him that the lease on the apartment he had rented with Lydia a lifetime ago is officially up. (Also; so what? he keeps count.)

If it didn't hurt so much he thinks he would have a hard time believe it even happened. As it is now though, he sees her every time he shuts his eyes and misses her so much he can't sleep on the side of the bed that she prefers. It's pathetic and he's the one who left, so he has no one else to blame, which is horrible.

His dad must've collected most of what happened through hints and how Stiles has moped around the house for most of said five weeks since he left her, all alone in Milwaukee.

First time he meets with Allison, now officially Scott's girlfriend, she had whacked him over the head and the proceeded to tell him off in a five minute prepared rant. Afterwards she had hugged him tight and continued to console him about it.

He misses her. Misses her. _Misses her._ He has tried to call her more times than he cares to count, but every time he's just about to jab down on the call button he recoils. Because he fucked up too bad. Because he wants her always, too much. Because he doesn't know what to say to fix it. Only knows that he wants to.

"Dude."

He looks up at Scott who sits across from him at the kitchen table.

"Just call her." He urges him, and Stiles eyes flickers down to the letter again as he considers Scott's advise for the millionth time.

He stares at it, wishing the crumpled paper in his hand would provide him with an answer, and it draws a strange parallel to the beginning of that night late last august, where it all had begun.  
The letter, much like last time, provides him with nothing of use.

He sighs as he looks back up to Scott.

"Dude." He says.

"I can't."

 

****

 

It's strange returning to Beacon Hills. Everything looks and seems the same, but something have shifted. The streets aren't as suffocating as they once were, the people doesn't feel like they're prying and creeping beneath her skin.

The Californian sun is hanging low in the sky as she drives, and its painting the town in a romantic colours, it looks nice, so nice that if she hadn't grown up here she'd probably be fooled by it. But something is different.

  
She can't quite put her finger to what it is, but as she pulls up outside of her mother's house in her rental, she is beginning to suspect the looming answer.

  
That maybe the truth is that nothing really has changed, except for her. She's the failing factor in the equation that isn't quite adding up.

Her mother is still at work, and it's a relief to have a moment to herself as she unlocks the door to the big house, bags in tow and face bare of makeup.

  
There hadn't been much to bring from Milwaukee. At least not in physical things, she notes sourly, but pushes the thought away as soon as it enters her mind.

She doesn't think about that anymore.

She drops her bags in the hall and shrugs her coat off over the backrest of the couch when she walks by it into the kitchen.  
Her hands feel restless so she settles on pouring herself a glass of water.

  
She sips on it as she leans back against the counter, heels still on, and stares out of the window.

She tells herself she doesn't think about that anymore but, that isn't really the truth.

And it's hard, being back in Beacon Hills, because although this wasn't where they actually happened everything here seems to remind of him, strangely.

  
She scoffs at herself as she sets the glass down. She had thought, late last august that Stiles Stilinski was harmless, when really he was probably the most dangerous one all along.

But ever since the GPS announced her that she was now officially back in town, small memories has creeped up on her.

Scott and Stiles in third grade when the class had been divided into space- and earth-groups, and they had declared war on earth.

A small scrawny version of him telling her that she had the same hair colour as Mary Jane in Spider-Man, and her snarky response as she explained to him that her hair was actually strawberry blonde.

A gangly, awkward boy with a buzzcut staring at her from across the cafeteria.

Of course she couldn't have known he was the most dangerous one. He had expertly been camouflaging it since they were nine. Hiding it beneath too big t-shirts and behind long rambling sentences.

And the again. Maybe it's not Beacon Hills reminding her of him.

But her.

Only her and the fact that she doesn't know how to actually build up the courage the call him.

 _I'm sorry_ , she sends out to the void instead, although she wants to hate him.

 _I love you_ , she thinks.

 

••••

 

"Okay Scott seriously, what is up with you?" Stiles asks finally, after five minutes of Scott's wide eyed glances and fiddling hands on the dashboard of the car.

Something is obviously wrong, and he sighs as Scott answers.

"Nothing!" He says, too quickly and voice entirely too high.

  
God, he is the worst.

  
"You look like you're about to pee yourself." Stiles points out helpfully, glancing in the review mirror.

"Its nice weather out today!" Scott comments idly, ignoring him and waving a hand out the window enthusiastically, clearly wanting to steer to conversation in a different direction than his ability of holding it.

Stiles deadpans. "It's California man. The weather is nice 90% of the year."

Stiles frowns at him and Scott stares back, looking like a deer caught in the headlights. That is, until his phone buzzes loudly in his lap and he snatches it up, angling the screen indiscreetly so that Stiles can't see who's texting him.

He rolls his eyes and Scott looks like he's about to faint as his eyes scan the screen.

"Chinese!" He yells suddenly, and Stiles almost jumps out of his own skin at the loud proclamation.

"Jeez Scott! I'm driving for Christ's sake!" He snaps, hand shooting up to right the baseball cap that's shoved down backwards over his hair.

It's getting too long and he can't seem to take the time to go and cut it.

"Sorry!" Scott pipes.

  
"I just... I know that we said pizza but Allison just texted and said she was feeling more of Chinese."

Stiles eyes him warily. "Alright? So we'll eat Chinese?" He shrugs.

Scott nods and then proceeds to clamp his mouth shut in a way that almost look painful, as Stiles takes a right and navigates the last couple of blocks to the only Chinese restaurant in town.

It takes him too long to react as he pulls up on the curb outside of it to realise that he actually recognises the red Toyota the Jeep comes to face on the street. Too long for him to connect the dots as he watches Allison climb from the passenger seat of it, and feels Scott's hand lands heavily on his shoulder.

It's actually not until his gaze lands in line with hers where she's sitting in the drivers seat, that he realises what's happening.

Lydia is already staring at him when his eyes finally lands on her. Her lips are slightly parted and the look in her wide eyes unreadable.

Unreadable, until it changes to obvious panic.  
It's alright though, because he feels himself freaking out about it around the same time.

"She's in town?" He wheezes to Scott still staring at her. "How long?" He scrambles as he hears Scott sigh.

"For about a week."

He turns away from her then to glare unbelievably at his supposed best friend. "A week? And you knew?"

Scott stares guiltily back at him at the accusation.

  
"Well-" he begins but doesn't seem to find the words.

Stiles turns back to her abruptly. She stares at him for a beat longer, before scrambling to start the car. Oh god.

"Scott." He says, hands clamping down on the wheel as he watches the Toyota sputter into life.

  
"Get out."

Scott makes a noise from beside him.

"Dude-" he begins but Stiles interrupts him.

"Scott, get out right now, or you're leaving with me." He announces, sparing a moment to turn and stare at him before shifting gears to be able to leave.

Scott scrambles out of the car and Stiles immediately aims to get the hell out of there because, what? She's in town? He's so not prepared for this.

Problem is, she seems to have about the same plan as him and they almost have a frontal crash as they both step on the gas at the same time. They both stomp down on their breaks just in time as to prevent it though, and as they fall back into their seats they're once again faced with staring at each other across the hoods of their cars.

It's lands in him suddenly.

She's there, after five weeks of nothing. She's there and as beautiful as ever.

An abrupt aching breaks out in his chest and his grip around the steering wheel hardens as he looks at her.

But then she averts her eyes, hands once again moving into action as she puts the car in reverse and pulls out from in front of him. He's still staring at the place her face had been just seconds ago when her car speeds off down the street.

He doesn't quite know how to recover. He sinks further down in his seat and glares at the empty parking spot before him.  
He doesn't move until Scott's knuckles raps against his window and he startles, turning to stare back at him through the window. He shrugs as Scott raises his brows.

He can't.

  
••••

 

It's one thing knowing he's in town, and a completely other to see him, flesh and blood, moles and cheekbones, across from her, Lydia observes, feeling hollow as she scurries up the steps to her house and pulls at the necklace that hangs like a noose around her neck.

"Lydia?" Her mother asks as she slams the door shut behind her.  
"Is something wrong?" She questions, the magazine in her hands falling shut as she stares up at Lydia from the living room couch.

  
Lydia gets that she's asking, she must be looking a bit crazed, where she's pressed up with her back against the front door and her hands clamped over her chest.

She's just about to say no, to straighten up and arrange a perfect smile, when she meets her mothers gaze, and remembers suddenly what it felt like, crawling up on the couch next to her and having her hands pat her head as Lydia told her about her day.

"Mom," she begins instead, taking a step closer to her.

"Why haven't you met someone else since dad?" She asks, and Nathalie looks a little shocked at her question, because truth is they don't really talk about that. Nathalie's observations about her father has been strictly restricted to snarky comments since Lydia was ten.

"Well," she begins, eyes fixing outside of the window as she seemingly mulls it over.

"It's..."

A few seconds of silence passes.

"I guess I've just not met anyone worth fighting for ever since." She continues, and pauses as Lydia kicks off her heels and settles on the couch beside her.

"You father and I..." she trails off.

"We never did. We chose to fight without getting anywhere. We never fought for each other, and when I realised that I just..."

She smiles over at Lydia, and for once, it's sincere.

"The only one I've felt worthy fighting for ever since, is you, sweetheart."

Lydia finds herself smiling warmly back.

Finds herself wondering what it feels like fighting for someone.

Hurts when she sees moles and high cheekbones before her again. (And again, and again.)

And as her eyes flutters closed and she drifts of too sleep that night, she wonders briefly, if he'd fight for her too.

  
••••

  
"He's leaving tomorrow, you know." Allison comments, as she sits, very unhelpful, in Lydia's armchair and watches as Lydia packs up her things in cardboard boxes for the second time in less than a year.

Lydia decides to play dumb, god knows she's got that down to an art form.

"Who?" She asks, glancing over the framed picture of her and her dad in her hand, before putting it down, deciding that no, that won't get to come.

"I'm just saying." Allison continues, obviously ignoring Lydia's antics.  
"You two are idiots, I swear sometimes it's like you speak different languages. You act as if the other one is dead." She mulls, hands clutching tighter around her teacup.

She doesn't quite know how to tell Allison that she thinks they have a language of their own. One of look and hands and touches, and that she thinks she could find him anywhere. She can agree on the idiot part though, mostly for him, obviously.

"Why should I care if he leaves tomorrow?" Lydia snarls, wanting Allison to get off her back about it.

"Oh come one Lydia." Allison says brow furrowing. "Don't give me that." She scolds and Lydia finally looks up.

"Why? It's no use Allison." She points out, arms crossing over her chest and jaw squaring upwards.

"It's no use, alright? He's leaving tomorrow, and I'm going to MIT soon." She continues.

Her heels dig into the thick carpet as she stands firmly before her.

"It's no use, because this-" she moves to kick at a box with her toe.  
"This was always happening eventually. We were always leaving, even when we weren't. So why should I care if he's leaving tomorrow?" She throws her hands up as she turns back to Allison.

"No." Allison says, putting her cup down and standing up as she shoves a finger into Lydia's chest.  
"No that's not it."

"I just..." she starts, staring at Lydia.  
"You're scared, alright. And I get that, you're scared of committing because you think being with someone makes you smaller, less independent and that you can't go. But," she takes a breath, stepping back a little.  
"God Lydia, I mean, have you seen the way he looks at you? I honestly think that he would gladly lay himself down as your doormat if it meant you could reach higher."

Lydia feels her nails dig into her palms as she closes her fists.

"And him..." Allison goes on.  
"He's scared too. He's scared because he thinks loving is losing, and I get that. I get that because the two of us have two ugly tombstones to visit and that sucks. It really does and I understand that he's scared, but Lydia he thought you didn't want him so he packed himself away to make it easier for you when he left."

Allison's eyes gleam in the dim light of her room and Lydia swears her heart has leaped into her throat.

"I know, alright, I'm currently entertaining a long distance relationship, so obviously I know. But I dared to try, and it's scary but it's also great. And the two of you, being fucking cowards... that's not fair on anyone." Allison finishes, and Lydia swallows hard.

She doesn't quite know how to explain to Allison, that she's not scared, she's terrified.

And isn't that ironic, when that was the feeling she was running from all along?

  
••••

  
_Game Finished_ , it says on Melissa's flat screen TV, and Stiles gets the urge to cry, because since when does Scott beat him at Halo?

He decides to ask as much.

"Since when do you beat me at Halo?"

Scott shrugs, flinging his controller on the couch and reaches for the popcorn.

"Clyde brought his Xbox to our dorm." He explains.

Stiles makes a noise in the back of his throat as he drops his controller into his lap and reaches for a handful of popcorn himself.

He feels kind of ridiculous as he considers the fact that he had been scared of losing Scott to collage. No way someone named _Clyde_ can up him. No way.

"Imagine if my roommate is also named Clyde?" He mulls out loud, and Scott sighs.

"Yeah, _imagine_." He deadpans, and Stiles scoffs at he flings a popcorn at his face.

This escalates, and soon a full fledged popcorn throwing war is taking place.  
Scott is yelling at Melissa for back-up, and first of, _unfair_ , and secondly, Scott is yelling at his mother for help? _Hilarious_.

As Melissa enters the room however, scowl on her face and arms crossed, they both still, because Melissa's cool, but she's also fucking terrifying.

"You two-" she points between them.

"Clean this up. Now." She orders, before retreating back upstairs.

They continue to push at each other as they clean up, deciding to order in pizza as they finish, and sit down on the porch with it as it arrives.

"Stiles." Scott says as Stiles watches in awe how he shoves, like, half of the pizza into his mouth in one bite.

"You're leaving tomorrow." He points out as he swallows, meeting his gaze before wiping his hands off on a napkin and laying down on his back to stare up at the star filled sky that has begun to show.

Stiles gives the pizza a longing gaze,  
but then falls back beside him.

"Yeah." He agrees, and he knows what Scott is really trying to say.

 _I'll miss you. I still need you. You're my best friend_.

He stares up at the sky, trying to find Orion's Belt somewhere on the canvas of it.

He thinks it over, thinks that he got here eventually, thinks that it's mostly alright.

Except, of course, for her. Because as soon as he lets himself relax, Lydia's fingers ghost over his skin.

"Does she know?" Scott asks, seemingly knowing what he's thinking about.

He doesn't know, truthfully. But he wishes he did, wishes he knew what she was doing and what she was thinking. Misses her. Wants her. Always.

And maybe Scott was asking something else as well.

He doesn't know if she knows that he loves her. Doesn't know if she knows that he wants her to hold his hand and laugh at his stupid jokes.

The reality of it ignites slowly inside of him.

There it is. Orion's Belt. The constellation of stars looking so close on the night sky, when in reality, there are thousand of light years separating them.

He thinks about the five minute drive that lies between him and Lydia. The five minute drive, and maybe the huge silence that they're yet to break.

She has to know.

The spark spreads to his fingers as he sits up suddenly, turning to Scott.

"I have to go." He says, and finds his best friend already looking calmly at him.

He offers Stiles a small smile as he answers.

"I know." Is all he says in response.

  
••••

  
Prada or Jimmy Choo?

Lydia raps her index finger against her arm as she probes on the choice before her once again. She's putting together an outfit for her first day at MIT, and this is all she has left to decide on.

She settles, as usual, on Prada. God knows Jimmy Choo doesn't deserve to represent her after their last collection.

Satisfied with her choice she sets the two pair of shoes back at their place, and proceeds to pat at a furrier, much more adorable version of Prada, running around her feet with her tongue hanging out of her mouth.

"Good girl." She praises and Prada's tail wiggles excitedly.

She's just about to pick her up, and pat at her some more, when she stills suddenly, ears straining as she picks something up that Lydia's ears are to undeveloped to hear.  
Then she scrambles out of Lydia's grasp, the _pat pat_ of her paws against the wooden floor, telling Lydia she's moving towards the hall.

She follows, thinking that her mother is probably home early from yoga class.

She freezes completely, however, as the headlights on her driveway dies down and reveals a painfully familiar car, and her heartbeat picks up severely as she sees Stiles himself fall out of it, eyes setting on her door as he stands for a moment, seemingly gathers whatever courage he's currently lacking.

She stumbles into action, hands shaking as she pushes Prada away and twists the knob of the front door, slipping out and finding his eyes on her immediately.

"Stiles?" She asks, and hates how her voice sounds thin. How her face is probabaly showing him exactly what she's thinking.

His eyes set on her as she makes her way down the porch steps, and his hands fumble a bit as she stops right below them, at safe distance.

"Lydia, I-" he begins, but stops suddenly and swallows as she stares at him, messy hair, hoodie and all.

She wants to reach out for him. Tell him to come closer, tell him to wrap her up and never let go. Tell him to stay. But her throat tightens and something there prevents her from doing so.

But he's there. Isn't he?

"Why did you leave?" She finds herself asking, voice small as she wraps her own arms around her small frame and tries to fight off the cold.

"I-" he tries again, but his eyes flicker away.

"I'm sorry." His voice is ringing with sincerity.

"I'm so fucking sorry Lydia." He says.

She believes him, but it's not what she was asking, and she says as much.

"That's not an answer."

He sighs, eyes averting as he drags a hand through his hair. When their eyes meet again there's a steady determination is his.

"Lydia." He says, but this time when he says it, it sounds rather like a statement for itself, hushed out between his lips.

"I just... you ask me why I left." He begins, taking a careful step closer, and looking winded as she stays put.

"You ask my why I left and I can't put a single word out to tell you, because truth is, I never wanted to leave."

Her heart thumps heavily in her chest as he continues. She feels as if she's standing on a ledge, about to take a leap.

"I wanted to stay. God, I wanted to stay with you but..." He trails off.

"I wanted to stay." His voice breaks along with something else  
"I wanted to stay for as long as I possibly could but I was afraid. And maybe you were too. I was afraid I wasn't good enough for you. I was afraid because I've always thought loving also means leaving eventually and I think I couldn't stand the thought of watching you walk away, so I did before you could. Because I'd go out of my freaking mind if I lost you."

His chest is heaving with the weight of his words and he sucks his upper lip into his mouth before he continues.

"I thought I wasn't good enough, and maybe I'll never be, but Lydia I want to be. God, I want to be. I want to spend every single day trying if it means that I get to have you by my side as long as I do it. Lydia I-"

His shoulders relax, and the set to his jaw loosens as he lets it slip out over his lips, as if it's the easiest thing in the world.

He leaps. He fights.

"I love you."

Blood rushes in her ears and her breath stammers as she unwinds her arms and reaches for him. He takes the few steps still between them in seconds and ends up in her arms with his hands cradling her face as she clings to his shirt.

"You're enough." She breathes against him.

"I'm sorry if I ever made you feel like you weren't."

His forehead comes to rest against hers as he strokes her cheeks.

"You're enough." She repeats.

His arms comes down then, wrapping around her and pressing her so tight to him that she can barley move. She wants to press closer, but can't be bothered with complaining as he nudges at her throat, burying his face there. Instead she places a small kiss on his chest and presses back.

They stand like that for a while, just breathing. She doesn't know for how long, and finds she doesn't care either.

"What now?" He murmurs into her ear eventually.

She takes a moment, but then speaks up.

"You're leaving tomorrow." She states, and feels him freeze beneath her hands. His eyes searches hers as she cranes her neck back to see him, and his arms loosen a bit around her.

He nods carefully, and she hates the look of uncertainty in his eyes.

"You're leaving tomorrow and the first thing you're going to do when you land is to call m-"

She's interrupted by his lips on hers, and she relents immediately, giving in as he licks into her mouth and his hands slip down to her hips to pull her closer.

"God," he mumbles as his lips starts to trace down her jaw, along her neck.

"I've missed you." He admits.

"I've missed your hair-" his lips touches the on the top of her head.  
"I've missed you head-" he pecks her forehead.  
"I've missed your voice," he trails off, capturing her lips in a slow kiss. She starts laughing as he begins to pepper her entire face with kisses, and does her best to push him off, (but not really).

She exhales through her nose as she feels his firm frame against her as he stills, small smile playing on his lips as he sways them.

She wraps her finger around the collar of his shirt and drawing him down to her then.

"If were kissing things were missing," she murmurs against his lips.

"I think we need to shed a few more layers." She informs, and smirks when his eyes flutters closed with it and he swallows loudly.

"Really?" He asks.  
"Really." She confirms, and then with out further ado, drops his shirt in favour of his hand as she drags him up the last steps of the porch.

She turns, one hand on the doorknob and the other one clutched in his, too look at him.

He's staring up at her calmly, with some sort of awe in his eyes.

She squeezes his hand once, feeling a blush creep up her neck, and the warmth where his skin brushes against hers.

"Are you with me?" She asks, and he smiles at her as he squeezes back.

"Always."

 

She realises something else later, as they lie beneath her sheets, early morning or late night, and trace each other's skin with their fingers.

She freezes, warm from where his hand his splayed over her stomach and pleasantly aching from between her legs, bending her neck to look at him where he lays behind her, and can't really believe he hasn't said anything about it.

"I didn't say it back." She says, as she meets his gaze.

A lazy smile draws on his lips as she does, and he pulls her closer to him, head bending down to nuzzle into the place where her neck meets her shoulders.

"You don't have too." He says simply, breath washing over her skin, and the sentiment of what he's just said hanging unspoken in the air between them, making another ache start somewhere beneath her heart and spread all the way out in her fingertips.

Her hands come down to rest upon his as she once again cranes to catch his eye.

"But I love you." She says, because she wants him to know, and it's true. "I love you." She says again.

This time when she meets his eyes they're awild, dark and sincere.

When he kisses her afterwards he does it as if nothing exists outside of them in this bed, nothing except the sheets that wrap around them and the red string that she sees tying them together every time she closes her eyes.

She thinks then that love is painful, broken and winded.

But with him, it's worth it.

  
••••

  
"You're boyfriend is here."

Clara, from her psych class, tells Lydia as she meets her up outside of the lecture hall for lunch.

"Considering he's currently in his History of Crime class, I seriously doubt that." Lydia answers, eyes still occupied with the snapchat she's trying to send Scott from the PowerPoint about animal ethics.

"Sure," Clara agrees easily as they push out of the entrance of the building.  
"He's not though." She continues.  
"He's here."

Satisfied with her choice of words, Lydia presses send and then stuffs her phone down her pocket before looking up to glare at her, and Clara shoots her an unimpressed stare, before turning away.

"He's in Washington Clara, what part of that statement don't you-"

"He's still got that ugly blue Jeep you told me about, right?" She interrupts and Lydia feels herself getting annoyed with this.

"Yes, but I don't see how that could po-" she quiets, however, and her eyes come to follow Clara's line of view, and she finds herself staring at Stiles Stilinski leaned back against that ugly, piece of crap, Jeep.

She shrieks as she sees him, because he's there and it's been too long and she needed to see him in person like _yesterday_ , or like, a month ago.

"Told you." Clara nods, and Lydia ignores her as she pushes her books into her waiting arms and then actually proceeds to run the last few meters towards him.

He grins smugly as he catches her, arms winding around her waist as she wraps around his shoulders.

"Surprise?" He chuckles as she comes back around to his face, and she whacks him on the chest.

"You're here." She states breathlessly, and he smiles towards her. "I'm here." He agrees.

"Now," He then continues, like the five year old he is.

"Is that your phone or are you just really happy to see me?" He asks next, nodding down towards where her actual phone is digging into his thigh.

"Oh shut up." She snorts at him.

"I know you said you needed sex," she says, hands coming up to his face as she leans in closer.  
"But this might be a new low." She informs him, and he rolls his eyes.

"Oh hi to you too Lyds, _yes_ , I've missed you, _yes_ , I love you dearly as well, _oh no_ not at _all_ , the drive down was a breeze-"

He babbles on and Lydia resorts to whacking him once more, but she's smiling so she thinks it might not come across right.

"Shut up." She tells him again, and this time, he actually does, leaning in even closer with his hands on the small of her back.

"Make me." He says, waggling his eyebrows expectantly at her.

She sighs, at this true burden, but the pulls him in.

"Fine." She agrees, capturing his lips with her own and licking against him almost immediately.

When he whines in the back of his throat, she decides that she's had enough of PDA.  
Drawing back and letting go of his face she grabs for his hand instead.

"Now can we please get the hell out of here?" She asks, and he only nods in compliance.

 

 

"Did you know," he says as he starts the Jeep.

"That I was actually supposed to start Stanford, before all of this happened." He tells her, and she feels herself freezing up in her seat.

"Imagine _that_ drive down." He goes on, seemingly unaware of her state.

She closes her eyes briefly, expecting to feel robbed or snubbed on something. As she opens them though, and her eyes finds his face across from her, somehow she doesn't.

Because what if she had went to Stanford? Would she have been sitting in the passenger seat of his car right now? Would she know how it feels to love him?

"Yeah," she settles on finally, deciding to keep her discovery to herself.

  
"Imagine." She agrees, reaching to take his hand over the gearshift.

"You know," he begins again.

"Some people might've called this a rendezvous," she grins at her.  
"A _runaway_."

She groans at his stupid joke, sinking further back into her seat.

"Spare me." She replies, but she's smiling again, and she thinks he can tell.

 _As long as you're with me_ , she thinks.

_As long as you're with me._

 

And the rest, as they say, is history.

  
•••••

**Author's Note:**

> SoZ.
> 
> That was it. 
> 
> I'm dying, what else is new?
> 
> Love them, love you if you made it through. 
> 
> please leave a comment with any thoughts!


End file.
